


separate ways and sleeping dogs

by sobsicles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A deep dive into both, A seriously blunt and harsh exploration of alcoholism and the struggles of sobriety, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe with Canon Elements to glue it all together, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Cas and Dean trying (and failing) not to be so in love with each other, Cas is a simp, Claire deals with alcoholism as well here, Dean being head over heels in love, Dean's repression is like a shadow in this fic, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Heartbreak, Humor, I contain multitudes, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sam is a good bro and a good friend, Sobriety, Yearning, also there's some really soft parts in here too, alternatively Dean and Cas go on a carnival date and it is really cute, seriously I'm coming with some angst for real, seriously y'all it isn't pretty, should clarify tho, the exploration of trauma surrounding religion, there are some rough moments and some lovely ones, we do end up turning on the lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles/pseuds/sobsicles
Summary: Dean is three years sober when Cas comes back into town.~~~For a moment, they just stare at each other. Dean, once again, has to swallow the urge to offer to swallow something else. It's very hard to resist the gut-wrenching pull of want that hooks in his chest whenever he looks at Cas. And to think, he used to have him, used to be able to act on that want.God, he's so fucking stupid.Well, there's no point in kicking himself three years later for shit he can't change. He'll just sit right here and pretend that his fingers aren't twitching with the urge to reach out and touch. He can't do that anymore, and it's his own damn fault."Three years ago," Cas prompts.Dean huffs a weak laugh. "Yeah. Eventful."
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 338
Kudos: 511





	1. Good Intentions

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, I know I'm churning out words a lot, but I'm on a Destiel kick—sue me. 
> 
> This one... Well, check the tags, okay? I'll give more warnings in depth if necessary before the chapters, because I genuinely do get into the rough, gritty, and real parts of alcoholism, sobriety, and angst. Basically, I pull no punches, so take care of yourselves, okay? 
> 
> For this first chapter, there's not really a warning. Just a brief scene showing John's A+ Parenting. It's his first, last, and only scene in this fic—he's only referenced after this. 
> 
> Otherwise, go forth and enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: oh yeah, I'm posting a chapter a day.

The brass chip slides back and forth in a small path across the leaning desk Bobby has had for years and still hasn't gotten around to fixing. The chip reads:  _ To thine own self be true. Unity. Service. Recovery.  _

It's a bronze chip, lightweight, and it makes a low scraping noise on the wood. When he runs his thumb over it, he can feel the bumps and ridges underneath, and he knows that the shine of it will wear off over time. It has the third roman numeral, and by now, the novelty has definitely worn off—not that there was much novelty to begin with. 

Bobby makes an aggrieved sound, leaning back in his chair and frowning behind his scruffy beard. He looks on the verge of being pissed off, though he usually does, and Dean sighs. He caves like he always does under Bobby’s grumpy thousand-yard-stare that suggests he's about to lose grip on the manners he likes to pretend he has and start ranting and raving. 

Flipping the chip into his hand and palming it carelessly, Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine.  _ Fine.  _ Yes, I will be going to Sam's birthday party. Happy?” 

“Stop flipping that chip around, boy,” Bobby grumbles. “And I ain't happy ‘til you tell me why exactly you weren't plannin’ on going.” 

“Relax, I'm not scared of the beer,” Dean mutters with a careless flap of his hand. “You're warm, little therapy sessions have worked wonders for me, so you don't have to worry about a thing.” 

Bobby visibly grits his teeth. “If I was worried you were gonna fall off the wagon, I'd tell ya not to go, ya idjit.” 

“Wow, all this talk of positivity and feelings sure have cured my crippling dependence on alcohol. If only I'd met you before I took my first drink, then all these warm and fuzzies would have kept me on the straight and narrow for sure.” 

“Talk to me about the party, Dean, and I ain't gonna ask you again. I know it ain't Sam. You and him patched things up years ago. It's not the bar, that I know without a shadow of a doubt. So, what the hell is it?” 

“It's just…” Dean looks away, frowning down at the chip in his hand. He leans back in his chair, unwilling to meet Bobby’s eyes. This is the part of these one-on-one’s with his sponsor that he hates, the parts where he has to be open and honest. “There will be...people there, people that I haven't seen in a long time.” 

Bobby grunts. “Longer than three years, you mean.” 

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “longer than three years.” 

“So, these people,” Bobby prompts. He leans forward and threads his hands on top of his desk, narrowing his eyes. “Whoever they are, they knew the Dean you were  _ before  _ sobriety. They were important to you.” 

“He.” Dean looks up from his chip, staring at Bobby with a frown.  _ “He's  _ important to me.” 

Bobby nods. “Family member?” 

“Ex,” Dean says dryly. 

“Ah,” Bobby replies, sitting up a little straighter, recognizing a delicate topic when he sees one. He holds Dean's gaze, his mustache fluffing up a little bit as he purses his lips for a moment. “Well, tell me about him, boy.” 

Dean can't help the way his lips twitch at Bobby’s gruff demeanor. He's the tough-lovin’ type of man that pulls no punches, even when you've hit rock bottom. He'll just promise you that you haven't, then stick around to help you pull yourself out of the hole you've landed yourself in. He's like Haymitch from that series  _ Hunger Games  _ that Dean's book club had made him read—it had turned out to actually be pretty good, though he'll never admit it—except Bobby is completely sober and just  _ like that.  _

Dean makes jokes and mocks Bobby for his sponsoring techniques, but he's scarily effective. Well, he is for Dean, at least. 

The first time Dean had stumbled into an AA meeting just a little over three years ago, he'd left halfway through to go to a bar and drink the rest of the night away. The second time, he'd made it nearly all the way before he slipped out. Bobby just so happened to be coming from the bathroom when he did, and they'd bumped into each other. 

Literally. 

Bobby had looked him over, then snorted and said, “Uh huh,” without clarifying a damn thing. 

The third time Dean returned to an AA meeting, he stayed the whole way through just to talk to the judgemental man in the trucker hat and ask him what his goddamn problem was. Somehow, that had led to him walking around with Bobby for three hours after the meeting, which then led to Dean coming back to the next, then the next, and so on. 

Bobby offering to be Dean's sponsor hadn't been a surprise, not really. They'd already formed a relationship that was similar—Dean calling Bobby at the two in the morning when he was standing in the beer aisle of a 24 hour convenience store, Bobby bitching at him until he was sure Dean had left said convenience store empty-handed. Without him, Dean knows he probably wouldn't be sober today, and though he's never said it, Bobby's been more like a father to him than his actual father ever was. 

Even still, Bobby is a pain in his ass. He makes Dean talk, even when that's the last thing Dean wants to do, and he badgers Dean into being honest when he'd much rather lie. He comes off harsh, seeming like a hardass, but for someone with that exterior, he sure makes them talk about feelings and emotions and things better left in the dark. 

Like this, right now.

“He's just an ex-boyfriend, Bobby,” Dean says casually, putting his best poker face on. “No big deal.”

Bobby arches an eyebrow, as if he's actually Dean's dad and has the natural instinct to read through his bullshit. “Really? How long were you together?” 

“Not as long as I've been sober.” 

“Why'd you break up?” 

“Why do you think?” Dean asks pointedly. 

“What do I look like, a mind-reader?” Bobby snaps, huffing a little. “Spell it out, Dean!” 

Dean feigns nonchalance, shrugging. “It's how the story always goes, isn't it? He didn't like drunk-me, and I did. He wanted me to quit, but I wouldn't. He was put through hell, and I'm the one who led him there. Same old thing, just a different alcoholic.” 

“And you ain't seen him since?” Bobby asks. 

“Nope. He moved away. Before you even say it, yes, I know how that looks, but no, I didn't fuck up his life so bad that I made him run. His brother needed help in New York, we were already on the cusp of ending things, so he left me.” Dean stops, flinching a little when he realizes what he just said. “Left, I mean. Just in—in general.” 

Bobby stares at him for a moment. “Uh huh. So, what, he's back now?” 

“Yeah, that's what I hear. Sam's lovely wife has reliably informed me that he's back for good, got a nice job opportunity or something. I dunno.” 

“You said it in present tense, by the way. That he's important to you, as in he is  _ right now,  _ still.” 

“Bobby,” Dean warns, “don't psychoanalyze me. You're not qualified for that.” 

“He somebody you need to apologize to?” Bobby continues, tapping his fingers to his desk. “Sounds like it to me.” 

“You know, they don't tell you that the apology tour never really ends,” Dean mutters sardonically. He shakes his head. “Even if he is someone I should apologize to, he won't have it. Trust me, Bobby, there isn't an apology in the world that will clear the air between me and him.” 

Bobby glances down at the chip in Dean's palm, reaching up to scratch at his beard. “How d’ya know? You tried apologizing before?” 

“Drop it,” Dean says firmly. “This isn't up for discussion. I'm not talking about it anymore.” 

“Alright, ya idjit.” Bobby scowls at him. “Watch your tone. Well, if you ain't willin’ to talk about that, how ‘bout we discuss your long-standing feelings against dating? See, I thought it was because you didn't feel recovered enough, but I'm thinking it has somethin’ to do with this ex-boyfriend of yours.” 

Dean stares at him. “Bobby, I'm serious. I'm not talking about this, or that, or  _ him.”  _

“So what're you gonna do about the party? Just deal with him when you ain't gotta another choice? That's bad planning, and you know it.” 

“I'll make small-talk if I have to, grit my teeth and bear it, but I'm not thinking about this until I have to. I know it's not healthy, but I've been a good boy for three years, so I think I'm allowed to go off the beaten path just this once.” 

“That's the kinda thinking that will end with you in the bottom of a bottle,” Bobby says bluntly. “If you ain't careful, you'll end up at that bar ordering a finger of whiskey to get through the party and the resurface of this ex of yours, and the next thing you'll know, you'll black out and end up in yard somewhere, all your hard work washed down the drain. You want that? You want to disappoint everybody, disappoint Sam, disappoint  _ yourself?”  _

“No,” Dean grits out, glaring at Bobby, even if he's right. “I don't want that.” 

Bobby nods. “You got three years under your belt and more on the way, but you gotta earn ‘em. That means being smart and takin’ precautions when ya can. I ain't asking you to bear your soul here, Dean. I'm telling ya to at least acknowledge that this is serious enough that it requires some thinking about. Go to that party, have fun with your brother, but make sure you're ready to face that boy when you do. Walking in blind is just askin’ to trip.” 

“I  _ know,  _ okay?” Dean snaps, blowing out a deep breath. His eyes sink closed and he sags back into the chair, slumping into it while it squeaks beneath him. After a beat, he opens his eyes to see Bobby frowning at him, which is normal. “You're right. I know that.”

“Don't be stupid,” Bobby tells him seriously. 

“I won't,” Dean replies quietly. He swallows and tilts his head back, looking up at the cracking ceiling. “God, I want a fucking drink.” 

“Well,” Bobby tells him, “that's just too damn bad.” 

Dean picks his head up and smiles. 

* * *

_ 24 years ago…  _

The bus stops by the corner of the road, and Dean  _ almost  _ forgets to get off at his new stop. He's still not used to getting off the bus so early when he was always one of the last stops before. 

Before his house burned down with his mommy in it. 

He's not supposed to be thinking about her, his therapist said so. 

Dean doesn't exactly know what a therapist is, but they must be important. His is, at least. He wears suits all the time and has a lot of books in his office and he's always,  _ always  _ writing something down on his clipboard. He also tells Dean these  _ secrets,  _ ones that he's supposed to remember throughout the day, ones like  _ it's okay to be sad  _ and  _ try not to think of your mother when you're doing something important.  _

Dean tries not to, but sometimes he does. 

By the time he skips up the sidewalk and meanders across the two really big parking lots, he's not thinking of her anymore. He's wondering how his dad will be today, if he'll be the nice dad who hugs Dean as soon as he comes through the door, or the mean dad who often ends up taking a long nap at the table. 

As soon as Dean walks into the motel room, he knows that he won't be getting the nice dad today. John is at the table, his head braced by his hands, and his eyes are bloodshot like they get sometimes when he's been crying or drinking, or both. 

Still, Dean has a faint hope that maybe his dad will turn nice, maybe. “Dad, are you—” 

“Not today, Dean,” John rasps, slowly lifting his head to stare at Dean. He looks like he could actually use that long nap he sometimes takes. “Just...not today, okay? Tomorrow, I promise.” 

“You said that yesterday,” Dean can't refrain from pointing out. He fiddles with his backpack strap, shifting in place. “I just need—” 

John holds up a shaking hand, his other going straight for the brown bottle that sits among mountains of strewn papers.  _ Adults and their important papers, _ Dean thinks,  _ and their grown-up drinks.  _

“Dad,” Dean presses again, watching John swallow down whatever is in that bottle with a wince. 

“I'm trying my absolute best, okay?” John snaps at him, his voice raising. “I'm doing everything I can! You think this is easy?! IT'S NOT!” His bellowing voice suddenly chokes off into something strangled, something thick with tears. “I have  _ nothing  _ left. The house is gone, and they're not going to give me an insurance claim for that, and I can't afford any more lawyers to fight it. I can't afford anything but this goddamn hotel room, and your mom is—” 

He cuts himself off, his eyes scrunching shut as it always does when he starts crying about Dean's mom. He's reaching out for the bottle again, tipping it back and downing more through his tears like it can make his bad feelings on the inside go away—Dean's therapist says those bad feelings only go away with time and healing. 

A small cry emits from the cradle across the room, and Dean's head snaps up. Despite his dad in near hysterics, Dean feels his lips spread into a grin. He drops his bookbag off and heads over to his little brother, the most important person in the world. Taking care of little Sam is the only time that Dean doesn't think about his mommy, or his dad and how unrecognizable he is these days. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean whispers, reaching out to poke his finger into Sam's curled fist. Sam gurgles at him and smiles. “S’okay, Sammy, Dad will be okay soon. He'll stop drinking that bad stuff, and he'll figure it out. He just misses our mommy.” 

Sam makes a fussy sound and tries to roll over, but his small cradle won't really allow it—he's getting too big for it now. He's getting too big for a lot of things. 

Dean glances over his shoulder to see his dad staring down at the papers with that bottle grasped loosely in his fist as he whispers, “I wasn't supposed to do this on my own. How am I gonna do this alone?” 

“When you get older,” Dean tells Sam softly, brushing small tufts of hair out of his eyes, “you're gonna be curious about the drinks Dad always has. Gonna be a real Curious George about it, but you can never,  _ never  _ have some, okay?” He leans closer to Sam, lowering his voice. “Me and you, Sammy, we'll never be like that.” 

Sam blows a raspberry, tossing his fists around, and Dean decides to take that as agreement. Smiling a little, he reaches down to get Sam up into his arms, patting at his diaper cautiously. Overall, Sam seems to be in a good mood and just wanted to see Dean and look around, which seems fair. Dean holds Sam close to his chest, bouncing him a little like his mom used to, and he glances back at his dad. 

His dad is drinking more and crying again. Dean thinks he's lonely, but looking at the bottle in his hands, he's not really alone. 

Maybe it would be better if he was, and he was strong enough to do it on his own. 

Unfortunately, they'll never find out. 


	2. On the Head of a Pin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General warnings for an ex re-entering Dean's life, and the first step into alcoholism. 
> 
> Oh, also minor character death—it's John, so idek if he counts as a minor character in this story. He's just referenced from this point on.

Dean has lived in this town for a good portion of his childhood and for all of his adult life. His dad had moved them here when Dean was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. At the time, both Sam and Dean had thought it was the end of their life. 

In truth, it might have been the only good thing John Winchester ever did for his kids. 

Dean loves it here. It's a quaint town, compact and simple, and the people here are generally good ones. Well, most of them are, anyway. He knows this place like the back of his hand, and he knows most of everyone at this point. He knows all the employees in the ABC store, though he hasn't set foot in the liquor store in three years. If he runs into them in town, though, he makes a point to catch up with them. 

Funnily enough, he knows the employees at The Roadhouse as well. Seeing as it's the town’s main bar, that comes as a surprise to no one. Ellen owns the place while her daughter, Jo, often bartends and serves with help from a couple of others—Kevin, the younger guy who will be heading off to some high end college any day now; Andy, who doesn't drink a drop but will smoke weed in a heartbeat; and Meg, the brunette who eats razor blades for breakfast and could wipe the floor with anyone who makes the mistake of fucking with her. They've all, at some point, had to take Dean's keys so he wouldn't leave the bar and go get wrapped around a tree somewhere. 

Those days are behind him now, but that doesn't mean he doesn't go to the bar. He's still a regular, even if he doesn't drink. These days, he just orders fried pickles and sips on a coke as he makes easy conversation with the people who've seen him at his lowest, and then lower. 

Dean's favorite thing about that bar is that no one there will serve him alcohol. Ironic, since his favorite thing used to be that they'd serve him as much as he wanted. But, since getting sober, Ellen has made it clear that no one is to give him even a drop of anything even remotely alcoholic—no beer, nothing. He kind of loves her for that, even if he sometimes hates her for it, too.

This bar, though… 

He sits in Baby and stares at the sign.  _ Lamplighter Pub  _ is a place he's never set foot in. It's east of his hometown, and he used to always go west when he'd go out of town to drink away a weekend. He knows that he could walk inside right now, order a Black Russian, and someone would just hand it over, none the wiser. It wouldn't be the bartender’s fault, it'd be his for ordering it, but it would ruin his life. 

A sharp rap on his window snatches his attention, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin when he looks over and sees Sam peering into the window. His face is right up against the glass, and he's grinning. 

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, throwing open the door and rolling his eyes at his brother. “You'll give a guy a heart attack by pressing your ugly mug against his window without warning.” 

“Hey, shut up. You can't be a dick to me today. It's my birthday,” Sam tells him in a self-satisfied manner, as if Dean wouldn't know it. 

Dean snorts and shuts the door, listening to Baby’s hinges creak ever so slightly. “You're getting old, Sam. And, what, you're excited about it?” 

“Sure.” Sam shrugs, grinning as he reaches out to slap Dean on the shoulder. “Not everybody gets worse with age, that's just you.” 

“I'd argue that he's gotten better with age, too,” Jess says, suddenly appearing at Sam's side with a wink and a smile, looking as beautiful as she always does and always has. “We're glad you came.” 

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” Dean watches them exchange a look, the one all couples have when they can communicate without words. He frowns, picking up what they're not saying. “What, you thought I wouldn't show? Dude, come on, I told you I'd be here, and if I couldn't make it, I'd at least let you know. I wouldn't just  _ bail.”  _

Jess smiles sheepishly. “It's just, you know, Cas is going to be here, and...well, we would have understood if you  _ didn't  _ come, that's all.” 

“I don't break promises.” Dean smiles tightly. “Not anymore, anyway.” 

Sam shares another look with Jess, then clears his throat. “Bobby called…” 

“He did  _ not,”  _ Dean snaps, staring between them in disbelief. When they wince, he groans. “That no-good, nosy bastard! What'd he say?” 

“He just told us to look after you, that's all,” Sam says easily. “He worries about you, you know that. We  _ all  _ do. If being here isn't great for you, then we'd get it if you wanted to—” 

“I  _ want  _ to spend my brother's birthday with him like I've done for most of his life, the past three years included,” Dean grits out forcefully. “Look, I'll be fine. I've been sober three years, how long will it be until you start believing me when I say that?” 

Sam frowns at him. “I  _ do  _ believe you. I wouldn't have thought twice about it if not for Bobby, but he explained that this could be triggering—” 

“Oh god, shut up with the medical mumbo jumbo,” Dean mutters, grimacing as he waves a hand. “I'm not going to drink, I  _ promise.  _ Cas or no Cas, I'm gonna have a good time with my brother, okay?” He flings out a hand to the trunk. “Look, see, I even got you a present. Go ahead, go get it.” 

Sam hesitates, looking at Dean for a moment longer, then he blows out a deep breath. “Alright,  _ fine,  _ but don't bitch at me and Jess for keeping an eye on you.” 

“Dude, it's your  _ birthday.  _ You shouldn't be worried about me. Besides, I don't need a babysitter.”

“We're just going to check in every now and again, that's all. Right, Jess?” 

“Right,” Jess pipes up supportively, reaching out to push at Sam's arm. “Go on, go see your present.” 

“It's nothin’ special,” Dean mumbles, lowering his voice and shuffling closer to her as Sam moves towards the trunk. 

Jess reaches out to squeeze his arm. “It will be to him. And Dean, don't feel like shit for Sam wanting to look out for you. Just let him do it. You know how he is, he likes to fret.” She smiles at him. “It'll make him feel better to keep an eye on you. So, for him, keep the biting retorts to a minimum, please.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes ma'am.” 

“Dude!” Sam bursts out, his head popping around the open trunk, eyes bright. “You got me a keyboard-shaped waffle iron?!” 

“You do love your computers,” Dean says dryly, lips curling up. “Figured you could eat ‘em, too.”

Sam snorts. “Why am I a child? Why am I excited about this? Jess, you know this means—” 

“Yes, we'll have waffles in the morning,” Jess cuts him off knowingly, chuckling and shaking her head. 

“Leave it in my trunk,” Dean tells him in amusement, noting the gleam of genuine excitement in Sam's eyes. “I'll put it in your car before we leave.” 

Sam shuts the trunk with the easy movements of someone who knows the car well, and he should. He grew up in Baby just like Dean did. “Alright, why don't we head in? I think the others are already here.” 

“Sure,” Dean says with more bravery than he feels. 

Truth be told, Dean doesn't feel brave at all. He has these knots in his stomach, this uncomfortable swooping sensation in his chest. He knows it's a recipe for disaster, walking into a bar feeling like this, but he's sticking to his guns. He will  _ not  _ ruin Sam's birthday, not this time, nor will he give up three years of sobriety that was hard-won because he's going to have to see Cas after three years. 

He can do this. Or, no, he's  _ going  _ to do this, regardless if he can or not. 

Sam leads the way into the bar while Jess hangs back, threading her arm through Dean's. She makes jokes under her breath about all the waffles she's going to have to eat for the next month, and it's just distracting enough that Dean finds it within himself to laugh with her. It doesn't wash away his nerves, but it makes it easier to ignore them for a while. 

If Dean knows Sam—and he does—then he most likely invited the small group of friends he has for a simple evening out at a bar. Just some casual fun. Most of the friends Sam has is from the law firm he works at or the courthouse, like Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum, Ash Lindberg, Pamela Barnes, and Mick Davies. 

There are few others that don't work as cops, secretaries, or other lawyers. Missouri Moseley used to babysit Sam when he was fifteen and sixteen because Dean was working a couple towns over and couldn't get off in enough time to pick Sam up from school, and their father sure as hell wouldn't be coherent enough to do it. She's probably here, too, simply because she stays in touch with them very regularly. There's also a couple of people Sam knew from college—Victor Henrikson, Charlie Bradbury, and Garth Fitzgerald. 

Dean's known these people for years, and there are some he's fond of, some he doesn't care for. There are some that are more his friend than Sam's, though it's hard to be close to one Winchester brother and not, at the very least, know the other really well. Charlie, for example, is arguably Dean's best friend, but she's still close to Sam, too. 

Then, of course, there's Cas. 

Jess squeezes his arm. “You gonna make it?” 

“Sure I will,” Dean says with false confidence. 

She doesn't push him, which is lucky because, just then, Dean catches sight of the cluster of people in the corner of the bar. As expected, it's everyone he thought it would be, including his ex-boyfriend. 

The situation with Cas is...different, to say the least. 

While it may seem odd to some, Cas being here when he's Sam's brother's ex isn't really all that strange. To start with, Cas actually became Sam's best friend during his and Dean's relationship. It used to be funny. Dean would laugh when Cas would say he was going out with friends because “friends” always translated to him going somewhere with Sam. 

It's not really funny now. 

Cas’ relationship with Sam had been a point of anger with Dean once things started getting bad again. Sam had caught the signs early and took a step back from Dean, even going as far to warn Cas what was coming, but Cas hadn't listened. For a while there, he'd balanced his relationship with Dean and his friendship with Sam as precariously as he could, and it had been a source of stress for him with Sam and Dean fighting. In the end, when Cas left, Sam blamed that on Dean, too. 

But here Cas is, back again like he never took off, and of course he's welcomed back with open arms. Everyone knows him, Sam still loves him like a brother, and the fact that he and Dean aren't together anymore is neither surprising for anyone, nor does it make anyone feel the need to pick sides. That's a good thing, Dean knows, because if people felt that they had to, he's well aware everyone would be on Cas’. 

He doesn't blame ‘em. If he could pick a side, he'd align himself with Cas, too. 

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching out to snag Sam's arm before he can just mosey on over like this is a regular day for acting normal. Sam raises his eyebrows, and Dean clears his throat. “Does he—did you tell him that I'm going to be here?” 

Sam shares yet another weighted look with his wife, then shrugs apologetically. “He hasn't asked about you, so we didn't—we weren't going to run him off if you weren't coming anyway.” 

“Sam,” Dean mutters, “I'm  _ here.”  _

“Yes, we see that.” Sam grimaces and raises his hands like he's surrendering. “We didn't  _ know,  _ okay? Look, it'll be fine. He's not going to make a scene or anything. You know how Cas is.” 

Jess nods. “Yeah, it's going to be fine.” 

“Right, well I'm going to need a minute. What do you want to drink?” Dean asks Sam, holding his gaze. 

Sam darts his gaze to the bar, then right back to Dean. He tries to hide his trepidation, but he fails. Slowly, like he's forcing himself to go out on a very shaky limb, he says, “You know I can always go for a Rum and Coke.” 

Dean snorts. “Yeah, I know. Relax, I'll grab two, one without the rum.” He winks. “Go over there and distract people so I can slip in unnoticed.” 

“Come on,” Jess tells Sam, reaching out to clasp his arm and start tugging him away, “Dean's got this. Let's go greet the masses.” 

“No lime!” Sam calls out as Jess quite literally drags him away. 

“I know, I know,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. 

He turns around and heads to the bar. Just one minute, that's all he needs. He wishes that he listened to Bobby and had some kind of plan for this, but as it is, he has about one minute to figure out how exactly he's going to greet Cas after three years. 

Not with a hug, definitely not. Maybe just a nod of acknowledgement, then avoidance for the rest of the evening. Though, Cas is fairly headstrong, and if he decides he wants to talk to Dean, then that's exactly what he's going to do. 

In all honesty, Dean doesn't know why he's freaking out. It's been three years. Cas probably doesn't give a shit about him, probably hasn't thought about him in a long time. He might even have a boyfriend, or maybe he's turned celibate and sworn off love forever—it's not like Dean would know. 

Thankfully, he's so distracted by the Cas issue that he barely has the energy to look at the menu and yearn for a drink he can't have. He leans against the counter and watches the bartender slide a drink to another customer before heading over to him with a smile. 

“What can I get for you?” she asks. 

“Rum and Coke, and also just a regular Coke,” Dean tells her, digging his wallet out of his pocket. “No lime for either, please.”

She grins at him. “You got it.” 

While he counts out the money for the drinks, plus a tip, he watches her make the drinks. He remembers a time when he'd watch bartenders make drinks and feel nothing about it. These days, he has a certain fascination with it. There's talent that goes into it, there really is, and he wishes he had appreciated it more when he could drink. If he wasn't an alcoholic, he'd think about becoming a bartender. 

He's not too bitter about that career path being closed to him, actually. For a guy with a GED and a shitty work history, he's actually got himself a really nice job. That's thanks to Bobby as well. His buddy Rufus runs a shop that focuses on changing oil in vehicles, changing tires, and running diagnostics—it's not a mechanic shop by any means, but it gets Dean working on cars, which he's always enjoyed. Bobby got him the job, and Rufus had made it clear that if Dean so much as showed up to work just once smelling like even a hint of alcohol, he'd be out on his ass in a heartbeat. Dean's been a star employee for the past two years, always on time and never causing any problems, and he doesn't plan on screwing that up. 

“Why am I not surprised?” 

Dean jolts up against the counter so hard that he slams his elbow into the side with a sharp curse, nearly crawling out of his skin at the sound of a voice he hasn't heard in three years. It still sounds as good as the first day he heard it, gravelly and raspy all at once, like the owner has gargled on rocks. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean mutters, his head whipping around to see Cas standing behind him with his all too familiar frown. “Some warning would be nice.”

Cas steps forward to lean up against the bar beside Dean, and he looks angry about it, even if it was his decision. “You're unobservant, as always. Distracted, perhaps.” 

Dean tries to inconspicuously check Cas out, but he's probably painfully obvious about it. The past three years haven't changed him too terribly much. He's still got those blue eyes, chapped lips, slight five o'clock shadow, and haphazard hair. He seems a little wider, though, maybe a bit bulkier, not as slim as Dean remembers. He does still have that unkempt yet effortlessly sexy air about him—he's wearing a trenchcoat that Dean hasn't laid eyes on in three years, and it's really weird to miss an article of clothing he always used to mock, but here he is. 

Clearing his throat, his heart racing wildly in his chest, Dean averts his gaze and says, as casually as possible, “What isn't a surprise?” 

“That you're at the bar,” Cas says plainly. 

“I'm getting Sam a drink,” Dean murmurs, looking down at his hands. He picks at the scars on his knuckles, refusing to look up. 

“Sam, right,” Cas replies evenly. “Just Sam, I'm sure.” 

Dean clicks his tongue and blows out a deep breath, finally gaining the courage to look over at Cas, who is shaking his head. “What do you want, Cas?” 

“Jess informed me that you were here. I believe she meant to warn me, though I can't imagine why. I decided to say hello.” Cas arches an eyebrow. “Hello, Dean.” 

“Hi,” Dean mutters, trying valiantly to fight the twitch of his lips and failing. 

“You look good,” Cas says bluntly. After a pause, he blinks. “Healthy. I mean you look healthy.” 

“So do you,” Dean offers. He jerks his chin to Cas’ arms that fill out his coat more than they used to. “Don't tell me you started working out.” 

Cas’ lips curl up slightly. “There wasn't much else to do in New York, and frankly, time at the gym was time away from Gabriel. I don't know if I ever mentioned it, but he's quite annoying.” 

“You mentioned it. And what do you mean there wasn't much to do in New York? It's  _ New York.”  _

“We didn't stay in the city, and I wasn't willing to make the commute. It's very busy there.” 

“Couldn't keep up?” Dean asks. 

“I didn't want to,” Cas tells him. 

They fall into silence, and Dean has no clue how he's supposed to break it. He looks away from Cas, then looks back, then can't really look away again. 

God, whoever said that being around your ex isn't awkward is a goddamn liar. Dean doesn't know what kind of exes some people have, but Cas is basically the one that got away, that Dean  _ pushed  _ away—the biggest goddamn mistake of his life. How is he supposed to act casual around the one person in the world who represents all of his deepest regrets? 

It doesn't help that Dean's been around him for all of two minutes and he would be one-hundred percent willing to slip off to the bathroom and hit his knees. No hesitation, he'd give Cas a blowjob right now, no questions asked. His brain seems to think that would suffice as an apology, but his brain's kind of fucked up, so he's not going to listen to it. 

“Here you go,” the bartender chirps, suddenly appearing with his and Sam's drink. She smiles at him as she takes the money off the counter. “One Rum and Coke, and one regular Coke, as requested. Regular is on the right.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says easily, grabbing the drinks and resolutely not thinking about how simple it would be to tip the left glass up and take just one sip. 

Cas turns around to watch him, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Sam isn't drinking? It's his birthday.” 

“No, he's drinking,” Dean tells him, holding his gaze steadily. “But I'm not.” 

“That's kind of you,” Cas murmurs, tilting his head slightly. He looks a little confused, but it's clear he's trying to hide it. “I'm glad you and Sam are on better terms and that you'd go an evening without alcohol for him.” 

“Right,” Dean says flatly, suddenly irrationally angry. He knows, logically, that Cas is just going off what he remembers about Dean from three years ago, but it still hurts like a bitch. “Well, hate to break it to you, Cas, but there ain't nothin’ kind about it. I'm not doing it for him.” 

Cas frowns at him. “So, why are you?” 

“Because,” Dean snaps, holding the drinks as still as he can with shaking hands, “I've been sober for the last three years, that's why.” 

Something happens to Cas’ expression that Dean can't really describe. It just goes blank, completely still and solid, like he's not feeling or thinking  _ anything.  _ Dean knows that's not the case, that Cas must have some emotions and thoughts about Dean's sobriety—everyone does—but he's apparently incapable or unwilling to show it, or both. 

Dean doesn't want to find out what he'll look like when his expression eventually cracks, nor does he want to know what he'll say when he finds his words. So, without another word, Dean pivots in places and quickly makes his way over to his brother, leaving Cas standing like a statue behind him. 

Sam is in the middle of a conversation with Jess and Jody, but he instantly looks relieved when Dean approaches him. He takes the drink Dean offers him with a smile, then glances around. As soon as he sees what must be Cas still standing by the bar, his eyes get wide and he shuffles closer to Dean. 

“Did he—” 

“Yep.” 

“Shit, Dean, I'm sorry,” Sam whispers, wincing apologetically. “I never saw him leave.” 

Dean waves him off. “Hey, you know him. Moves like a damn ninja. It's fine. I'm here for you, so what do you say we play some pool?” 

“Yeah?” Sam's face clears, and he nudges Dean with his elbow, smiling slightly. “Bet you my fancy, new waffle iron that I'll win.” 

“Dude, I'm not taking that bet,” Dean tells him with a snort, rolling his eyes. “Not because you'll win, but because I just bought that damn waffle iron for  _ you.”  _

Sam purses his lips. “Yeah, okay, fair. Still, I'm winning,” he says, heading towards one of the pool tables with Dean shadowing him. 

“Uh huh,” Dean mutters, “keep dreaming, man.” 

Sam barks a laugh while Dean fishes around for some quarters, and a few others drift over to watch them bicker back and forth, setting the table up. Jess gives Sam a kiss for good luck while Charlie jokes that he'll need it, and Dean focuses on lining the balls up while doing his best to ignore the heavy gaze on the side of his face. He doesn't have to look up to know who it is, but he's a glutton for punishment because he lifts his head to covertly peek over at the other group that are waiting on the food they've ordered. 

It's not as covert as he hoped because Cas meets his gaze immediately, his blue eyes bright and blazing, and Dean quickly looks away before he can figure out what emotion resides in them. 

“Let's play,” Sam says with a grin, holding up his pool stick, looking at ease and perfectly happy on his birthday. 

And that, Dean tells himself, is all that matters. 

* * *

_ 7 years ago… _

Planning a funeral is stressful. It's especially stressful when the person recently deceased had no form of money to pay for said funeral—no savings, no life insurance, nothing. It's even more stressful when you have to plan it by yourself. 

To his credit, Sam offers to help, but that requires him to get a job, and Dean won't stand for it. His little brother is in school, making a life for himself, and he won't let their dad fuck that up for him. Only John Winchester could be dead and still causing goddamn problems from the grave. 

Well, not the grave because Dean can't afford to have his father buried. It would cost even more to move his dad back home to be buried next to their mom, and as much as Dean wishes he could, he just doesn't have the money to make it happen. 

It was one of his dad’s few wishes on his deathbed, and Dean won't be able to fucking do it. 

Dean remembers that last conversation very starkly. John Winchester had only wanted three different things while in the midst of dying. One, he told Dean over and over to take Baby and care for her, which Dean is more than happy to do. Two, he made Dean swear that he'd be buried next to Mary, which just isn't feasible. And three, he'd begged and pleaded for one last drink, even as his liver was failing, which the hospital refused to provide. He'd died with his last words being that he wanted a goddamn drink. 

There's an irony to that, Dean thinks. 

Sighing, Dean leans his head against Baby’s wheel and tries very hard to keep his shit together. It's going to be fine. He'll cremate his father; it isn't what his dad wanted, but he's dead, so it's not like he'll know. He'll take a small container of ashes back to Kansas and leave it at his mother’s grave, and that will have to do. 

He'll have to pick up a second job to handle the cost of the cremation, the added weight of covering all the bills, and paying on his father’s debt which apparently gets passed to him now, so that's just fan-fucking-tastic. But it's going to be okay. He's done the math plenty of times. Sure, they'll have to go without food at the house, but Sam can eat at Missouri's and Dean will figure something out. As long as nothing else goes wrong, they'll manage to keep their head above water, just barely. 

This is, of course, the precise moment that he tries to crank Baby and finds that she refuses to. He stares blankly at her dash, his heart thumping unevenly in his chest. 

“Come on, Baby, don't do this to me,” he whispers, squeezing her wheel hard. “Not now, please.” 

She does it to him. Of course she does, because why wouldn't his life get harder than it already is? He doesn't blame her, not really. It's undoubtedly his father’s fault for not maintaining her, which is now coming back to bite Dean in the ass, like most things do when he least needs it to happen. 

Stupidly, he hopes that the repairs won't cost much. 

He doesn't know why he lets himself hope. He knows that when it rains, it pours. He's all too familiar with that saying; it's like a staple in his life at this point. 

First, he has to pay for the tow truck to take Baby to the mechanic in town. That puts a decent chunk in his money, and he wishes his dad would have gotten better insurance so he could have had roadside assistance. But no, John Winchester would never waste money he could spend on booze or gambling, so here Dean is, doing math in his head and trying to figure out how the fuck he's going to put gas in Baby when she does get cranked again. 

His hopes that he can balance the upcoming bills and this repair gets washed down the drain when the mechanic looks him dead in the eyes and says, “To get ‘er up and runnin’ again, it's gonna cost ya three hundred and twelve dollars, plus tax.” 

Dean stops doing math in his head. There's no point anymore. There goes the money for lights and water at the house, and he sure as hell won't be able to put food in the cabinets. He'll still be able to swing rent, but only by a little bit, and he's probably going to be perpetually behind on other costs. Getting Baby running again isn't up for negotiation; that's his ride back and forth to work, the only way he can continue to have an income. 

“How long will it take?” Dean rasps. 

The mechanic glances at the clock on the wall. “Ah, about two hours, I'd say. If ya got some things to take care of, go on ahead and get ‘em done. If not, there's a bar right across the street ya can pass the time at. We'll give ya a call when it's finished.” 

Dean mutely nods, turns around, and walks right out of the building. He doesn't actually plan to go to the bar, but the street is otherwise empty of things to do, and he has no one to call that can give him a ride anywhere. Blowing out a deep breath, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and crosses the street, heading right into the bar without hesitation. 

The place is pretty full, people in booths and crowded around pool tables. The only open seat is at the bar, and Dean has two hours to get through, so he figures it can't hurt to sit down and wait it out. He slides up on the open stool and leans his elbows on the bar, closing his eyes as his fingers brace his hairline. God, he's so fucking tired. 

“You look like you could use a drink.” 

Dean's eyes snap open at the sound of the man’s voice, low and nasally. He has a salt-and-pepper beard, a slightly crooked nose, and watery blue eyes. He looks harmless, really, so Dean withholds the biting retort he wants to give. The last thing Dean could use right now is a drink, but it's not the man's fault for suggesting it—he  _ is  _ in a bar, after all. 

“Thanks, but I'm good.” 

The man tilts his head slightly, reaching down to grab up a glass. With flourish, he makes a drink under Dean's wary gaze, sitting it on a napkin and sliding it in front of Dean with a wink. 

“It's on the house,” the man tells him. “At the very least, it'll bring you some relief from whatever is eating at you right now.” 

“I really don't—” 

“I'm Alastair. What's eating at you, kid?” 

Dean grimaces, staring down into the drink in front of him. “I go by Dean, not kid,” he says tersely. “And, if you must know, my dad died two days ago.” 

Saying it makes it seem all that more daunting, and Dean listens to the sentence echo in his head. His dad, John Winchester, is dead. The source of what killed him after all these years sits in a glass, right in front of him, and Dean hates it. He hates it almost as much as he hates his dad for the shit he put his kids through, for the life he abandoned them to, for the pain he was too weak to embrace, using drinking to escape it. 

“Well, Dean,” Alastair says, “I'd say that warrants a drink or five.” 

Dean shakes his head. “I don't drink.” 

“Maybe not before this moment, but I'll bet you'll have yourself a glass today.” Alastair leans his elbows on the bar and smirks at him, suddenly seeming a lot less harmless than moments before. “You look stressed. A drink will help you relax.” 

“Maybe I can't relax, you ever think of that?” Dean snaps, glaring at this stranger who knows nothing about him. “Maybe not everyone in this fucking world leaves their problems at the bottom of a goddamn glass,  _ Alastair.  _ Maybe  _ some of us  _ learn to fucking deal with it!” 

Alastair stares at him, deadly serious. “You're in pain, I can see that. You think life is unfair, that you've lost things and people, that you'll never make it out the other side.” He hums, reaching out to push the glass towards Dean. “This? It's not the enemy, Dean. If it doesn't control you, it's simply a relief. Have a drink, feel your stress melt away, then see how you deal with it. I promise you it helps.” 

“Not everyone,” Dean mutters bitterly. “Sometimes it ruins their life.” 

“Only because they let it,” Alastair tells him, and yeah, Dean can't really argue with that. With some more nudging, Alastair pushes the glass into Dean's hand, watching him intently. “You don't look like you relax much, Dean. This will grant you that. You should let it. Just one drink will work wonders; trust me, I know. And, since you already know what it can do, you won't let it take control.” 

Dean stares down at the glass, a furrow in his brow. He's always wondered, deep down, what drinking ever did for his father. It never made him any less miserable, and it certainly didn't help him heal from his grief. Why drink at all? What does it even  _ do?  _

He's sworn off drinks for as long as he can remember, hating alcohol with everything in him. It's the thing that caused so many problems for him and his brother. But, sitting here with Alastair’s words floating through his mind, he wonders if that's true at all. In a way, he thinks he's been blaming alcohol his whole life when he should have blamed his father. 

People drink all the time and don't let it consume them. The truth is, John Winchester was just weak. Dean isn't. He never got that chance to be, always stepping up when he had no other choice, never allowing himself to let go. Alastair is right; he doesn't relax, and he has no idea how to start. 

Alastair's words brush through his mind.  _ I promise you it helps.  _

Maybe it does, maybe it's not the enemy, maybe Dean's father was the problem the whole time. 

Without a second thought, Dean lifts the glass and takes a hefty gulp, swallowing down the liquor with his eyes sinking closed. It feels like defeating the boogeyman hiding in his closet, killing the monster that hunted him through the years, letting go of a piece of animosity that he'd held so close for so long that it had burned him. One drink, and he's fine. It doesn't ruin him, it won't. He isn't his father. 

The drink burns in his chest and he coughs, blinking open his watering eyes to see Alastair watching him, blatantly entertained. “Fucking hell, what  _ is  _ this?” 

“Just some Brandy,” Alastair tells him with a rough snort. “Trust me, it gets easier. Not just the drinking, but the problems. Have some more.” 

Dean does. It turns out that Alastair is right. It gets easier to drink the more he has, and with it, his problems stop seeming so heavy. He has one drink, then another, then a third. He likes how it feels, the warmth in his veins, the pleasant buzz in the back of his mind, the hard parts of his life seeming so inconsequential. In the here and now, feeling relaxed for the first time in a very long time, he understands that drinking isn't the enemy at all. 

Dean knows he's not like his father, that he won't lose himself, that he won't use drinking as a crutch. He just likes how it feels, how nothing bothers him when he's swaying a little in his seat. He feels more alive than he has in years, and like this, he's not even that angry at his father. Tonight feels like a step forward, not a step back, despite the financial struggles he's still in. He's had a few drinks, and he no longer hates it. In fact, he'd go as far as saying that he loves it. 

Alastair is right. 

It helps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing this whole story: Oh, Dean...


	3. In the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warnings for this chapter—depictions of Dean being drunk, as expected. (Not a relapse.) Also, just some general angst.

Life changes when you decide to become sober. No matter who you are, or who you know, things always change when you make that choice. Dean's learned that the hard way over these last three years. 

For example, his so-called  _ friends  _ that he'd picked up while drinking. People who are like him, who love alcohol and the effects of it, who want to party their whole life away. And that's just fine. Sober is a foreign concept to them; they don't see why it's necessary, they think he's  _ fine,  _ and they make no real moves to support his decision. In the end, these are the people Dean had to cut loose, even if they weren't truly  _ bad  _ people—they were bad for  _ him,  _ so he had to let go. 

To this day, Crowley will still randomly call him and invite him out for drinks. 

Of course, not everyone is like this. Sam rarely drinks, but he'd picked up social drinking in college, and he handles his shit well. However, the moment that he realized Dean was  _ seriously  _ sober, he stopped drinking in solidarity for about two years, and he doesn't do it that often now. Others like Charlie and Jess wouldn't drink in his presence for nearly two years, and they're almost borderline  _ loudly  _ supportive of his sobriety. The people Dean hangs out with these days never put him in a situation that could make things hard for him, for which he's thankful. 

Ellen, however, was one of the first people to take a stand to support him being sober. She's known Bobby for years, and the  _ moment _ Bobby had mentioned that Dean was quitting drinking, she had made a rule to never serve him at The Roadhouse. Of course, he didn't hear about this for nearly a whole year because he spent the first year of his sobriety not stepping foot in places he ever had a drink. 

He only found out because he was dropping off Andy for work because his car was being worked on at the shop. He'd decided to stick his head in, even though he was scared shitless, and Ellen had told him her rule then. After that, he's frequented the bar just like he used to, enjoying the company of people who often feel like family, and he doesn't have to worry that anyone will sell him alcohol. 

Every now and again, he likes to test this rule, only because his humor is fucked up and he likes it when the bartenders get fired up at him—even Andy, who is so calm and chill that a sudden alien invasion wouldn't really bother him all that much. 

“Hey, She-Demon,” Dean hisses, leaning forward on his elbows, “whaddya say you pass me a beer?” 

Meg shoots him a flat look. “As much as I'd enjoy watching you get so wasted you piss yourself again, I'm in no mood to clean up your mess. Better luck next time, Dean-o.” 

Dean bites back a grin, snorting quietly as she saunters away. It's true that he's gotten so wasted that he's pissed himself—an embarrassing number of times, actually—and he doesn't like the reminder, but he gets a strange sense of satisfaction from knowing that no one here will sell him alcohol. It's Ellen’s rule, but anyone could break it. They don't, not even Meg, and it weirdly feels like they  _ care.  _

“Are you bothering the bartenders again?” Jo asks with an arched eyebrow as she walks behind the bar to sit her server tray down. 

Dean winks at her. “Aren't I always? How are you doing today, Joanna Beth?” 

“Just another day in paradise,” Jo says dryly, sweeping her hand around lazily. “And you? Heard Cas is back in town. How's that going?” 

“Of course you heard. Everyone here is a bunch of damn gossips,” Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. He takes a deep breath and shrugs. “As for Cas, I wouldn't know. I only saw him a week ago at Sam's birthday party. Haven't seen him since.” 

“Did you talk to him?” Jo asks, leaning in with a curious glint in her eye. 

Dean scoffs. “Mind ya business, nosy neighbor. Word travels fast around here, you know.” 

“Ah, come on,” Jo says lightly, “you know I won't tell. I'm just curious, that's all.” 

“Mhm.” Dean eyes her for a moment, then snorts and shakes his head. “If you  _ must  _ know, yes, we did speak. Just a casual, calm conversation.” 

“Seriously?” Jo arches an eyebrow. “That's it?” 

“Yes? What did you expect?” Dean asks, frowning. 

Meg appears in his peripheral, leaning on the bar with a small smirk. “Oh, you know, something more than a little talking. You two  _ were  _ disgustingly in love, after all.” Her smirk grows, as does her snark. “Though, I guess we shouldn't expect much after you ran Clarence out of town. I wouldn't want to have much to do with you, either.” 

Dean ignores the pang in his chest and lays a hand over his heart, grinning. “Aw, you saying you  _ do  _ want to have things to do with me? Can't lie, I have been trying to get you to skip town for years.” 

“Too bad I don't have a heart,” Meg says, tilting her head at him, “or you could break it the same way you did poor Clarence's.” 

“I didn't—” Dean stops and heaves a sigh. There's no point in arguing with her, mostly because she's always been partial to Cas, but also because she might just be a little bit right about that last bit. She's wrong about the other, though. “He left because Gabriel needed him, you  _ know  _ that. Anyway, there's no point in talking about this. There's nothing  _ to  _ talk about. We said hi, we went our separate ways, and that's that.” 

Jo makes a disbelieving sound in her throat. “Sure.”

“Oh, please,” Meg mutters, rolling her eyes. “It's not  _ that's that  _ with you two. It never has been.” 

“Hate to say it, but she has a point,” Jo says sheepishly, wincing apologetically. 

Dean smacks a hand to the counter and stands up, clearing his throat. “Well, I think that's enough of that. Jo, give Ellen my love. Meg, go away and never come back. See you both later.” 

Jo makes faint protests as he starts to back away, but Meg just salutes him and smirks. He knows they mean well—or Jo does, at least—but he's in no mood to deal with any talk about Cas. With more time, people will eventually stop bringing it up around him when they see that nothing has come from it. He just has to wait it out. 

Dean's doing his best to not think about Cas that much, and in some ways, he thinks he's doing a pretty good job. He hasn't been going over their first interaction in three years  _ that  _ much, at least. It does cross his mind, though. Like now, for example, as he heads out the bar. To be fair, Jo brought Cas up  _ first,  _ so that's not on him. 

Something knocks him off that train of thought, however. Quite literally, in fact. 

Dean's shoulder clips someone as he's not really paying attention, making him look up with a frown. As if the subject of his thoughts are summoned, Cas stands right in front of him with an unimpressed look on his face. 

He's wearing that damn trenchcoat again. 

"Dean," Cas greets in his usual growly tone, an eyebrow arching. 

Dean clears his throat. "Hey, Cas. Sorry, didn't mean to run you over or anything. I wasn't paying attention. That's my fault." 

"Are you coming from The Roadhouse?" 

"Yeah. I just stopped in to see everyone. Jo's there, and so is Meg. You seen her yet?" 

Cas shakes his head. "No, not yet. I was going to see her now. I would like to surprise her." 

"Oh." Dean winces. "Dude, you know this town. It ain't a surprise anymore. Everyone already knows you're back." 

"Of course they do," Cas says dryly. He flicks his gaze over Dean. "Did you tell them?" 

"No, they heard it somewhere else. They just asked, uh, how our meet-up went." 

"I'm sure they did. What did you say?" 

"The truth," Dean murmurs, shrugging. "We spoke, that was all. Nothing else to say." 

Cas stares at him for a beat, then nods. "Of course. Well, outside of the fact that you're now sober. No one seems to know why you decided to finally do that." 

"Asking about me, Cas?" Dean rolls his shoulders, slapping on a smile despite the frisson of nerves that shoot through him. "Careful, people might start getting ideas, and you know how everyone talks in this town." 

"I'm curious." Cas frowns at him. "That's it." 

Dean nods. "Yeah, I know. It's not—it doesn't matter, not really. Go on, go see Meg. Surprise or not, you know she'll be happy to see her precious Clarence." 

Cas' lips curl up just a bit. "I imagine she will be pleased, yes. Where are you going?" 

"Home, probably," Dean admits, reaching in his jacket pocket to pull out his keys, fiddling with them. "I'm off today. I normally would go bug Sammy, but it's his anniversary with Jess, so I left 'em to it." 

"So you have nowhere to be?" 

"Nowhere in particular, why?" 

Cas tips his head. "Come with me to see Meg. Perhaps she'll tell me why you chose sobriety. Or, if not, perhaps I can convince you to tell me with time. Indulge me?" 

Dean purses his lips to hide a smile, fiddling with his keys as he looks down at his shoes for a moment. Cas is a stubborn bastard, always has been, and he clearly wants to know. Only one person knows, but not really, and Dean would prefer to keep it that way. Besides, Dean's reasons to  _ get  _ sober aren't the reasons he  _ stayed  _ sober, so he's not sure it really matters anymore. 

Still, being around Cas is an enticing offer, even if Dean knows it's a tremendously bad idea. But, then again, he loves a bad idea—Cas has always been his favorite, and that hasn't changed in three years. 

"Sure, lead the way," Dean says, sweeping out a hand and raising his eyebrows. 

Cas flicks his gaze over him for a moment, lingering, and then he marches on without a word. Dean follows, trying to escape the feeling of heat in his nerves at Cas' eyes on him and failing spectacularly while taking ample opportunity to appreciate the outline of Cas' ass through the trenchcoat. God, he hates that fucking trenchcoat, but fuck, he loves it, too. It's a goddamn  _ tease,  _ is what it is. 

When they enter the bar, Cas pauses a moment to look around, squinting a little to take in details. Dean always used to joke that he must have shit eyesight with all that squinting he does, but of course not. Cas' vision is perfect, with the exception of seeing how fucked up Dean was. 

"It hasn't changed at all," Cas says. 

Dean snorts. "'Course not. Ellen keeps it classy." 

"Well,  _ hello,  _ Clarence," Meg drawls, coming around the counter with a swing in her hips and a smirk curling her lips. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, you pretty thing?" 

"Meg," Cas greets, mouth twitching into a smile. 

"Come here, it's been too long," Meg declares with relish, sidling right up to him. 

Dean has to physically bite his tongue when Meg reaches up to push her hands into Cas' hair, gripping the strands and yanking him down. She kisses him right on the mouth, and  _ fuck her.  _ For a split second, he's so jealous that his throat burns like he's swallowed battery acid. 

The sad thing is, this is the equivalent to him kissing Charlie—a lesbian with absolutely no interest in men,  _ especially  _ him. See, Cas is gay, and as much as he likes Meg, he's just not into her. And, for all her posturing, Meg doesn't really do  _ love.  _

So, all-in-all, there's nothing really going on here. It's a quick kiss, even. Just a harsh press of mouths that Cas allows without even batting an eye, that Meg pulls away from with a grin. Dean knows he has no right, he  _ knows  _ that, but jealousy and envy burn him from the inside out anyway. 

That's probably why she did it to begin with, if her side-eye glance of mean satisfaction towards him is anything to go by. She's fucking terrible. 

"You look well," Cas tells her, like the fact that she's greeted him with a kiss isn't something to think twice about. They've always had a very odd relationship. "Your hair has grown." 

"Yeah, no shit. It's been three years," Meg says with a snort. She pulls back from him and crosses her arms, cocking a hip. "I know your world crashed and burned when you finally realized that your boyfriend was a waste of space three years ago, but you could have called." 

Cas sighs. "Dean is not a waste of space. I could not call, as I did not have a phone for a few months. When I replaced my old one, I didn't have your number. I apologize." 

"Hm." Meg considers him for a moment, then flicks her fingers lazily, forgiving him in an instant, easy as you please—she's always been a little soft in regards to Cas. "Don't. Save it for someone who cares. You here for a drink, or just to see little ol' me?" 

"I'm here to visit you," Cas says bluntly, then glances over at Dean, "and to speak with him. Are the funnel cakes still on the menu?" 

"You think Ellen would ever take them off?" Meg rolls her eyes. "You want an order? I'll let Jo know." 

"Please," Cas says. He gestures towards a booth across the room, nodding at Dean. "Come on." 

"Careful with that one, Clarence," Meg warns with a sharp smile, "he's the living embodiment of disappointment." 

"And you're Satan's side piece," Dean retorts with a sweet smile, flipping her off as she saunters back towards the bar with a laugh. 

Cas shoots him a vaguely disapproving look, which isn't  _ fair.  _ Meg literally started it. Dean makes a face at his back as he turns and moves to the booth, but he clears his expression when he slides into his side. 

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Dean, once again, has to swallow the urge to offer to swallow something else. It's very hard to resist the gut-wrenching pull of  _ want  _ that hooks in his chest whenever he looks at Cas. And to think, he used to  _ have _ him, used to be able to act on that want. 

God, he's so fucking stupid. 

Well, there's no point in kicking himself three years later for shit he can't change. He'll just sit right here and pretend that his fingers aren't twitching with the urge to reach out and touch. He can't do that anymore, and it's his own damn fault. 

"Three years ago," Cas prompts. 

Dean huffs a weak laugh. "Yeah. Eventful." 

"Clearly." Cas flicks his gaze over him again, a weighted look. "When I left, you were drunk. I admit that I'm surprised to come back and find you sober." 

"Why are you back?" Dean asks. "Jess said you got a good job opportunity, but they don't just hand those out around here. I'm guessing you applied for it, which means you wanted to be here, specifically." 

Cas stares at him for a moment, then looks down at the table, his jaw working. "You know why Gabriel needed me." 

"Right, because of the divorce." 

"Yes. They got re-engaged three months ago." 

"Wait, seriously?" Dean blinks and leans forward, stunned. "Gabriel and Kali got back together? Are you fucking kidding me? After  _ all  _ that… Jesus." 

"After the divorce finalized, they spent a year not speaking with each other," Cas murmurs. "After that, however, they began to have relations again. I didn't know it at the time. Apparently they just couldn't leave each other alone, no matter how bad they were for each other. For a year, they were stuck in this...cycle. I'm not even sure how it worked, really. They met up, they—well, they were always more inclined to the physical aspects of their relationship. Nonetheless, they still fought." 

"Why even go through all of that?" Dean grimaces and leans back when Jo swoops in, sitting the funnel cake down between them, along with two sodas. She gives Dean a pointed look, which he ignores, and then she's gone. "I mean, if they were just gonna end up back together, why even get divorced?" 

"Neither of them were happy about it, either. When I eventually  _ did  _ find out, Gabriel admitted that they were both furious that they couldn't leave each other alone. They were miserable together and miserable apart." Cas shakes his head and picks up his fork, taking a bite and humming in approval. After he swallows, he hums thoughtfully. "A year ago, they started going to couple's therapy. They never quite fell out of love, but they weren't good for each other or  _ to  _ each other, and they needed help learning how to be. They became very happy and actually  _ good  _ for one another. When it became obvious that they were going to end up together again, I began thinking of where I wanted to go." 

"And you decided here?" Dean mutters. 

"This was my home, Dean," Cas says softly, staring at his fork. "I felt I belonged here, with friends who felt like family, with—" He cuts himself off, eyes flicking up to meet Dean's gaze. He frowns and looks away. "These past three years, I have been in a place that did not feel like home. Gabriel is my brother, and I love him, but we are not… We aren't like you and Sam. I wanted to be where I felt most at home, I suppose. So, yes, I decided here." 

Dean nods slowly, reaching out to pick up the other fork, even if he doesn't take a bite immediately. He releases a slow breath. "Well, for what it's worth, Cas, I'm—I'm really glad you're home." 

"Are you?" Cas asks stiffly. 

"Yes, actually," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "This may come as a shock to you, but I'm capable of being happy for you without—without thinking of my own personal benefit." 

Cas narrows his eyes at him. "Me being back doesn't benefit you at all. It has nothing to do with you." 

"I know," Dean agrees, fingers spasming around his fork. Shit, hearing that actually  _ hurts.  _ Fuck. 

"I didn't come back for you, Dean," Cas tells him, apparently feeling the need to reiterate this. 

Dean nods jerkily. "I  _ know,  _ Cas." 

"Good," Cas says firmly. "I don't want you getting the wrong idea. It  _ is  _ worth something to know that you're...glad I'm back, but it's not—it isn't an opportunity. I need you to know that." 

"I just said I did, didn't I?" Dean grits out. 

"I felt the need to point it out, because you keep looking at me like—" Cas presses his lips into a thin line, inclining his head. "Well, it's very obvious." 

"I ain't gonna apologize for having eyes, Cas," Dean drawls, smiling slow and warm. He leans forward, tapping his fork to his bottom lip. "Can't help it if I have a good memory, and I seem to recall that no one has ever fucked me the way you do." 

"Did," Cas says sharply, quickly. It's all bullshit, though, because Dean can see his pupils expand and shrink, his breath hitching. He scowls, glaring at Dean. "They way I  _ did,  _ past tense. Never again." 

"Not even one more time, for old times sake?" Dean needles, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. 

Cas' eyes flick down to his mouth, lingering, and Dean's lips curl up in response. God, he forgot how much  _ fun  _ it was to get Cas all riled up. He's sort of thriving off the knowledge that he still can, that he can tease and flirt and watch Cas get sucked into it, into the force of his own want. No one has ever wanted Dean the way Cas does. It's magnetic. 

Cas' eyes flash, then jerk back up, narrowing into furious slits. "No," he says coldly. "Never again." 

"Ah, probably for the best," Dean muses, leaning back in his seat. He bites back a grin when Cas visibly falters, startled at the abrupt agreement. "Don't worry, Cas, I know how to let sleeping dogs lie. We could be—friends, maybe." 

"Friends," Cas echoes flatly, as if that word is an alien concept to him, in regards to Dean. 

"Or not," Dean mutters, grimacing. "We can always go our separate ways, too, if that's what you want."

"Maybe that's for the best," Cas says. 

Dean flinches and puts his fork down. "Right. Well, in that case, enjoy your funnel cake, man. I've got to—I should get going, I reckon." 

"Dean," Cas murmurs as he slides out of the booth, his hand snapping out to snag his wrist, looking up at him with furrowed brows, "what made you get sober?" 

"Does it matter?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrows. His stomach is cramping, a tangled knot in his chest, a rising sense of hurt thrumming like a headache in his mind. He wants to dip down and kiss Cas full on the mouth. He wants a drink. 

Cas frowns at him. "Shouldn't it?" 

"No," Dean says bluntly, harshly, "you're not here for me, remember? We aren't—hell, we aren't even friends. So, no, it shouldn't matter, not to you." 

"It does, though," Cas whispers. "For what it's worth, Dean, it does matter to me." 

Dean reaches out with his free hand, dragging his fingers over Cas' that are wrapped around his wrist. He watches Cas' eyelashes flutter, lips parting, then forces himself not to show how much it hurts when Cas snatches his hand back. His blue eyes are wide, wary, fingers curling into a fist. 

Dean gives him a small smile, a little thin. "Yeah, Cas, I'm sure it does." 

With that, he turns and walks away, and he forces himself not to look back. No matter how much he wants to, and it's a lot. He wants it more than he's ever wanted a drink in his life, to turn around and look at Cas just for a little longer. 

It's always been that way, though. 

* * *

_ Five years ago… _

Dean stumbles out of the bar with a grimace, the world lurching to the side, wobbling out of focus. Or, maybe that's him. He blinks and grips the railing of the stairs, taking in small breaths that don't make him feel like he's going to hurl. 

The door opens behind him, letting out a burst of music and an uproar of rowdy laughter. The after-party of some stranger's birthday is still going strong. That poor bartender, putting together shots for everyone in the house over and over, a tab open that Dean had no shame in running up. Hey, they were offering, and he was already three sheets to the wind when they did—he's got bills to pay, so he won't say no to free drinks. 

Whoever was coming out after him sees him and apparently decides they would rather just stay inside, shutting the door again. The sound pops like a bubble, muffled, and Dean feels it throb inside his head. He groans quietly and stumbles further from the bar, leaning on strange cars and trying to find Baby. Where the fuck did he park her? 

Down the street, right? Shit, he's going to have to walk. At this point, he thinks he's going to have to fucking crawl. Jesus  _ Christ.  _

Slowly, Dean starts his trek across the parking lot. He's still got a beer in his hand, his last send-off for the night. The trip between cars is precarious, and it involves a lot of stopping and leaning while tilting his head back to squint up at the stars. Every now and again, his stomach lurches and black spots dance in his eyes, but he keeps going. 

He's never felt better. 

The piercing wail of his phone from his pocket makes him croak like a goddamn frog, hand flying up to cover his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, then fumbles for his phone while taking another pull from his beer—that's always the cure, just a little more. It works a treat. He doesn't even look as he answers the phone and puts it to his ear, swallowing the gulp of beer and continuing on his topsy-turvy journey back to his car. 

"Eyyy," Dean answers, nearly tripping over the curb in front of him, distantly surprised to find that he has miraculously made it to the sidewalk. 

There's a deep sigh through the phone. Ah, that'll be Sammy. Sure enough, following the gusty sigh of utter disappointment, Sam says, "Where the hell are you, Dean?" 

"Ya know," Dean says, "I don't even know, man. Where the hell're you?" 

"At Missouri's," Sam replies tersely. 

Dean hiccups. "Oh, nice. Tell 'er I said hey. I like Missouri. She's great, Sam." 

"She said you weren't coming." Sam sounds angry. He sounds angrier than he ever has. "I've been making excuses for you all day. I  _ always  _ make excuses for you, Dean. Why can't you just—" He cuts himself off violently, then makes a small sound. "It's her birthday. We don't get to see her as much as we used to, and you  _ promised  _ you were coming." 

"Ah," Dean mutters, "shit." 

"Yeah," Sam says dully. 

Dean knew he was forgetting  _ something.  _ He had something important to do. He remembers that much. It was just a quick stop at the bar, that's all, so how the fuck did it go so wrong? A drink here, another one, and then that party came in to keep the drinks flowing, and now it's nighttime. He was supposed to be at Missouri's hours ago. 

The world seems to fade out and lose focus, everything seeming to tip, and Dean needs to sit down to have this conversation. Slowly, feeling a little too big for his body, he kneels down right in the middle of the sidewalk and carefully lowers himself down on his ass, his free hand not holding the phone dangling between his legs, beer gripped loosely in his fingers. He blinks at it, then takes another swallow, head swimming. 

"Well," Dean says, then can't quite recall what the fuck they were even talking about. He can't get a grip on his slithering thoughts, everything shifting in and out of focus, so unimportant—just like he likes it. He hums. "Well, anyway, yeah." 

Sam makes a low, furious sound. "You can't keep doing shit like this, Dean. Every time.  _ Every  _ single fucking time, you do this." 

"What m'I doing, man?" Dean asks, both for his benefit and Sam's—he doesn't really know, and he's sure that Sam will feel better telling him. 

"Ruining your life, just like Dad," Sam snaps. "You told me—you  _ promised  _ me you were done with this shit. You swore you were handling it, but you aren't. You're outside of some bar right now, aren't you? Too messed up to even drive." 

"Yeah, probably shouldn' do any drivin'," Dean slurs, blinking muzzily at his boots. "I ain't like Dad, Sammy. Me and you, we're never gonna be like him, okay? I'm gonna make sure of it. I'll take care of you. S'what I do, ya know?" 

"If you don't stop what you're doing, you're going to end up  _ just like Dad,"  _ Sam hisses in his ear, just a little too loud, making him wince. "You aren't taking care of anyone right now, Dean! You can't even take care of yourself!" 

Dean frowns, eyes drifting shut. His head droops, and he has to jerk it back up. "I'm feelin' real fine, Sammy. Hey, I'm getting kinda tired, but you—you just keep doing… What was it you're doin' again?" 

"I can't believe you, Dean," Sam says sharply, and he sounds so,  _ so  _ pissed off. He makes another angry noise. "Don't you dare drive, you hear me?" 

"Mmkay," Dean agrees, not even sure what he's agreeing to, then he sits there with the phone pressed to his ear for a long time until he realizes that Sam has hung up on him. 

Dean rocks a little as he fumbles to slip his phone back into his pocket. Sam will be fine. He's always fine. Dean makes sure he is, 'cause that's what he's supposed to do. He's been on Dean's ass lately, but he's always on Dean's ass about something or another. He's so stressed to be barely twenty. That's a stressful age, though. Dean remembers it. 

His twenty was a lot different than Sam's twenty, though. Dean, at twenty, was taking care of a drunkard for a father who was on a steady decline, which eventually ended on a plummet a year later. Dean, at twenty, was working two jobs and getting Sam back and forth from High School and extracurricular activities, as well as putting food on the table and keeping the lights on while trying to convince Dad not gamble away all his money. Dean, at twenty, was getting his shit together and his ducks in a row to get custody of Sam when his dad inevitably kicked it, that way he wouldn't end up in the system—which he managed, in the end. Dean, at twenty, hadn't yet discovered the wonders of alcohol, but he would. Real soon, he would. 

Sammy's twenty is freshman at college, a pretty girl he has a crush on, a full-ride because he's got a brain like a steel trap, and a brother who occasionally indulges in a bender or five but never,  _ never  _ forgets to drop off actual groceries at his dorm room so he doesn't have to live off ramen and can actually have a little spending money from his part-time job. 

He needs to unclench a little, is all. 

Dean sighs and ducks his head, closing his eyes so the world around him will stop spinning. It's making everything tilt and sway, or maybe that's just him. His fingers loosen around the neck of the bottle, but it doesn't fall from his slack hand, simply dangling there, fighting gravity like it wants to stay as attached to him as he is attached to it. 

Somehow, he falls asleep like this. It's the kind of sleep he doesn't even realize, a snooze that settles into his bones. It's the kind of doze that will sober him, just a little, kind of like a cold splash of water, except more subtle. It's a tranquil state that only drinking can put him in, all the world's problems and his own seeming so far away. 

He feels like he's floating, actually. And, when he jerks awake at some point later, his mind is a little clearer. He blinks around blearily, noticing the stillness of the world around him, a certain kind of quiet that comes at an ungodly time of night. He's slept outside, half-sitting up, for hours. 

Dean's mouth is dry, so he takes a swig of his beer. It's gone warm. He swallows it down with a grimace anyway, shakily pushing to his feet right after. He only stumbles a little, cursing under his breath, getting his balance a beat later. The world has stopped spinning out of control, but he feels heavy and sort of hollowed-out at the same time. 

Winchesters don't get hangovers. They just wash away a headache with a beer. Dean's tolerance is high, and maybe it's hereditary, or maybe he has a knack for this type of shit. Nothing feels as easy as being drunk—a perpetual cycle he keeps falling into over and over. Sometimes, he thinks he's always drunk. And sometimes, he thinks that's for the best. 

At most, he just feels disoriented and out of sorts and kinda sloshy. Like right now. It makes his trip towards his car slow and careful, willing himself to get his shit together. He won't pass out. He won't vomit all over the sidewalk. He won't do anything other than make it to his destination, crawling into Baby and finishing the rest of his stale beer before sleeping for a couple more hours until it's definitely safe for him to drive. 

Dean grips his beer like a lifeline, and it sometimes feels like it is. He keeps walking, looking up to make sure nothing is in front of him every now and again, but mostly watching his feet. 

It's when he looks up next that he sees it. 

Just in front of him, right up ahead, there's a man standing under the beam of a streetlight. He's all lit up, every feature on his face so easy to make out. Dean can see his haphazard hair, the blue of his eyes almost seeming to glow in the surrounding dark, the sharp jaw and his tan trenchcoat and very sensible shoes. Dean looks at this man and stands very still, somehow sure that he's meeting an angel. 

He's beautiful. 

The beer in Dean's hand goes crashing to the ground, glass shattering, forgotten. The man's face tilts, head turning further, and Dean's moving closer before he even realizes it fully. He doesn't think about how creepy it must be for this man to have a total stranger slowly walking towards him. He doesn't think about anything at all, because the man is staring right at him, holding his gaze. He doesn't look alarmed. He looks...curious. 

Dean doesn't stop until he's stepping into the circle of light, and then he can't make himself take another step forward. Now that he's here, he's not really sure what to do. A part of his brain is still insisting that this man is an angel, and that part has no fucking idea how to talk to one. Another part of his brain is just taking in every detail of the man, his furrowed brows and slightly chapped lips and the tiniest tilt to his head. The last part is just a long stream of inner screaming that he hasn't ever heard before in his life, though it is very reminiscent to what his bisexual awakening sounded like. 

This feels like an awakening of another kind. This is something he can't quite explain, or make sense of. He just looks at this man and knows he doesn't really want to look away ever again. 

Dean has no idea what to say. He doesn't think about the beer he abandoned, doesn't think about the bar just up the street, doesn't think about how he's dreading how long he'll have to go before he can get drunk again. He doesn't think anything except  _ oh, hi, hello, who are you?  _ Any maybe, maybe, just maybe this man is thinking the same thing, because he's simply looking at Dean as if he, too, is fine with just doing that forever. 

Dean thinks an introduction might just go a long way, so he says, "Hi. I'm Dean." 

The man stares into his eyes and, with a voice like an earthquake, one that shakes Dean to his very foundation, very calmly says, "Hello, Dean." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, we're really in it now, folks. 🥺


	4. The Rupture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okie dokie, folks, here we are again. Some warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> General angst, of course. Dean being drunk (not in real time), and all that comes with being drunk sometimes—vomiting being one, but not a too terribly in-depth description of it. Also, heartbreak, yay! Heh. 😬 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy?

Dean hasn't drank a drop in three years, but the thing about getting sober and  _ staying  _ sober is that he sometimes convinces himself he's just...faking it. 

It's sort of like he's playing a prank on himself. He's not sure why, but it can feel like being a little kid surrounded by older, wiser people who know things he'll never understand. It's an odd mixture of inadequacy and feeling like he's in over his head. It was worse when he first started, when he first began to really buckle down and give it his all. He just kept waiting to fuck up like he did every single other time, falling off the same wagon because he never actually managed to get his footing. 

Honestly, it doesn't happen as much anymore. He's three years in, so he can generally shut that shit down when it gets too loud in his head. He's got proof, doesn't he? Three years of sobriety, all that he gets to wave around like a torch in his mind. There's no room for fucking white flags of surrender. 

That being said, he's not immune to this stupid shit happening to him every now and again. Even now, three years later from where he first started. That's okay, though. This is where Bobby comes in. 

"The hell do you want, Dean?" is how Bobby answers the phone after precisely three rings. He always answers the phone. 

"They've started selling Margaritas in a bag, did you know that?" Dean asks. "They put 'em on display with Tequila. It says you just add it in and freeze it, then boom, frozen Margarita." 

"You don't even like Margaritas," Bobby says. 

"Eh, I ain't picky," Dean replies. He squints at the squishy Margarita bag in his hands, then frowns at the bottle of Tequila. "This shit just gets more and more accessible every day. It's like the world  _ wants  _ me to drink, Bobby. It's a sign." 

"No, it's you being an idjit again." Bobby grunts, the sound of shuffling coming through in the background. "Put the damn bag down and get whatever you were aiming to get at the store." 

Dean sighs and does as he's told, putting it away and heading for the bread aisle, which was his original destination. "I needed to grab some hotdog buns." 

"Well, get 'em, then. What are you looking at goddamn bagged Margaritas for?" Bobby mutters. 

"First time seeing them, in my defense. It's insane to me that there's going to be drinks I'll have never tried before. Place your bets, Bobby. What do you think is gonna do me in? I think three more months and I'll be due for a relapse." 

"If you're itchin' to taste your own vomit, come and see me so I can give you a swift kick in the balls. I ain't placing no bets, boy, shut the hell up." 

"You'd peel me out of a ditch, wouldn't you?" 

"I'd piss on you first, but yeah, ya idjit." 

Dean grins. "Aw, you  _ do  _ care." 

"I never said I didn't. Sound pretty sentimental today, Princess," Bobby grouses. "You got something going on?" 

"Nothing much, really," Dean admits. "Having some friends over, so I'm cooking. It's the works. We're talking the Fourth of July kinda cooking, except it's not day of the free, or whatever the fuck. It's an open invite if you're feeling frisky." 

"Well, I ain't got much else to do today. No, no, I gotta stick around to drop off this guy who's scrapping his piece of shit car. Told him I'd take him home since he ain't too far." 

"Bring him if you want. Anyone I know?" 

"Don't think so. Might bring him along. He seems nice enough, and I think he's kinda lonely." 

"Like I said, it's an open invite, Bobby." 

"Uh huh," Bobby says, heaving a sigh. "I do like your burgers. I'm probably coming." 

"Nice." Dean offers the lady behind the cash register a small, awkward smile as he pays for the hotdog buns he grabbed. She looks annoyed that he's on his phone, and he gets that it's kinda rude, but he doesn't know how to explain that he's a grown man who needs to talk to someone sometimes so he won't buy alcohol simply because it's new and he's never had it before. He doesn't really even wanna try. He'd rather look like an asshole. "You can bring something if you want." 

Bobby snorts. "I'm coming to eat free food, that way I don't have to cook. I ain't bringing shit." 

"Greedy." 

_ "Resourceful."  _

"That's one way to look at it." Dean rolls his eyes as he heads outside, swinging his bag lightly from his fingers. He slips into the car, shutting the door behind him, grabbing his keys with his free hand. 

"You outta the store?" Bobby asks. 

Dean hums. "Yup." 

"Alright," Bobby says simply. "See you in a couple of hours, Dean. Be careful on the way home. The roads were flooding last night. All that damn rain." 

"Tell me about it," Dean mutters with a grimace as he swings Baby out of the parking lot and onto the road. "Alright, see you, Bobby." 

They say their goodbyes, and Dean relaxes into the drive home, all but forgetting that bagged Margaritas are even a thing. 

That's what it's like sometimes. He isn't so much as  _ straying  _ as he is getting distracted. It's very easy to do, like stumbling and looking down to see what's tripped him up. It's the getting back to the  _ walking away _ part that's hard. Every once in a while, he needs someone to give him that little nudge. 

In the beginning, he called Bobby sometimes three or four times in one day, and Bobby answered the phone every single time, no matter what time it was. It was odd. Sometimes, Dean would call Bobby even when he wasn't about to do something stupid, just to see if Bobby would answer. John almost never answered his phone. The fact that Bobby did, no matter what, was a strange phenomenon. 

The best thing about Bobby is, he doesn't act like Dean's stupid or weird for calling. He doesn't act like Dean's in the midst of a psychotic break. He doesn't treat him like glass, or react like it's abnormal, or complain like he'd rather not have to handle Dean at all. Even when Dean was calling him every six hours, or at three in the morning, he just answered the phone without fail. 

With time, Dean's need to call Bobby has become less frequent. He rarely does these days, not in reference to alcohol. He'll go months at a time without needing Bobby to talk him away from the alcohol aisle. Still, he regularly calls Bobby up for no other reason than just to talk to him, not even about anything to do with sobriety, and Bobby doesn't mind that either. He just answers, every time. 

When he gets back to his house, he gets started. 

He really is grilling out, seeing as it's the weekend and he's let Sam talk him into doing something with it. His plan isn't a  _ party,  _ exactly, but more of a get together that anyone is invited to. It's a small town. Practically everyone knows everyone. 

There's only a few rules he has when it comes to any kind of people being at his house. The main one is that there can be no alcohol of any kind here. It's just for the best, because he lives in a house untouched by any drinks—not even a beer. He moved here about two years ago, and he just doesn't allow anyone to bring that shit around. Healthy spaces, or whatever. It's just easier. 

The most recent rule is: no Cas. 

Sam had gotten a pinched look on his face when Dean told him this, but it's for the best. He's already explained that Cas doesn't want to be around him, but Sam doesn't seem to think that's true. His doubt is very obvious, and he keeps hinting at ways he can help bridge the gap between them, not even necessarily to help them get back together—though Dean knows Sam would love that shit—but to get it to where two of his favorite people can be around each other again. It's nice, but...no. 

Cas had made his stance on them very clear—not even friends. That's his decision, and Dean's gonna respect it. He did a lot of not respecting Cas when he should have, honestly. He can do it now, though, no matter how much he wants to just invade his life again. He  _ wants  _ to be around Cas, even though he knows he shouldn't, but he also won't force it. Cas deserves a good, happy life. If it's better and happier without Dean in it, well, so be it. 

Anyway, Dean's doing a terrible job of not thinking about Cas at basically any available opportunity, but thoughts and actions are two separate things. It's what he does that matters, he's learned, and it's a lesson that has enriched his life quite a lot. 

People start pouring in even before he's finished cooking. Charlie is the first to arrive, whirling in with  _ Pocketful of Sunshine  _ blasting from her phone as she comes wiggling up onto his deck and steals his spatula to wield like a sword, demanding a sudden fight to the death. Sam and Jess show up a little bit later to find him and Charlie fencing very seriously with spatulas, and Jess immediately begins narrating their duel while Sam dumps the seemingly endless bags of potato chips down on the table. 

By the time he's finished the food, his backyard is nearly at max capacity. Ellen's here. Jo, Andy, Ash, Missouri, Jody, Donna, even Meg. Who invited that asshole, Dean doesn't know, but he just tosses a glare at her and smacks her hand with his greasy tongs when she tries to steal a hotdog before he deems it time for everyone to eat. In retaliation, she picks up a hot coal without even flinching and drops it down the back of his shirt, making him curse vibrantly and dance around to dislodge it. 

This is, of course, when Bobby shows up. 

"Got some ants in your pants?" Bobby asks as he comes stomping up onto Dean's deck, dumping the three boxes of generic debbie cakes on the table because he is, in fact, a softie at heart. 

"That fucking  _ bitch,  _ Meg, put a goddamn—" Dean cuts himself off the moment he finally whirls around to look at Bobby head-on. 

Bobby, and the guest he brought along, who turns out to be none other than fucking  _ Cas,  _ because of course it is. Dean blinks at him. 

"Hello, Dean," Cas greets. 

"You two know each other?" Bobby asks. 

Dean clears his throat. "Hey, Cas," he says, his voice softening before he can try and stop it. He rips his gaze from him and looks at Bobby instead. "Yeah, we know each other. He's, uh, the ex." 

Bobby falters, blinking. In his defense, it's not like Dean ever told Bobby Cas'  _ name.  _ It's not his fault. He looks startled for a split second, turning to stare at Cas, who's squinting at Dean in a cross between suspicion and confusion. Dean sighs. 

"Cas!" Sam blurts out happily, appearing at Dean's shoulder with a grin. "I didn't know you were coming, man! It's good to see you." 

"It wasn't planned," Cas rumbles, still squinting. "I was getting rid of Gabriel's old car, and Bobby offered to drive me home. He then told me we were 'swinging by' someone's house quickly." He even does air quotes because he's utterly ridiculous and so fucking  _ hot,  _ Jesus Christ. "I was not aware that I was being brought here." 

"Well, I didn't know you knew Dean," Bobby mutters, grimacing. 

"Bobby's my sponsor," Dean tells Cas, because he knows he's curious. He's always so curious about so many things. "He's the one who puts up with my bullshit when the bottle is calling my name. And, well, he's family, too." 

_ "Very  _ sentimental today," Bobby notes. 

Dean flips him off. 

Without missing a beat, Cas turns to Bobby and very bluntly asks, "Do  _ you  _ know why Dean got sober, then?" 

"'Fraid not," Bobby replies, raising his eyebrows slightly. "He never got 'round to tellin' me, and it doesn't matter anyway. Reasons to get sober are rarely reasons to stay sober." 

"Ain't that the truth?" Dean snorts. "If ya ain't stayin' sober to be sober, ya ain't gonna be sober." 

"Well, ya _do_ listen to me, after all." Bobby tilts his head back, clicking his tongue. "Where are the pigs? They ought to be flyin'." 

Sam chuckles. "Come on, Bobby, give Dean a little more credit than that. I swear to god he treats your word like the gospel. There are times he opens his mouth and you fall out." 

Dean can  _ feel _ his face getting hot, so he rolls his eyes and turns away to focus on sitting out the condiments. "Alright, come and get it, you savages!"

"Don't mind if I  _ yes,"  _ Jess says excitedly, swooping in and going right for the cheeseburgers. 

"Stick around," Dean says idly, flicking his gaze back over to Cas and Bobby. Mostly Cas. "Have some food. Hang out with some people. No need to rush off in a hurry or anything. Drinks are in the cooler. Touch the music, and you die." 

With that, Dean proceeds to do everything in his power to ignore Cas entirely, though he's absolutely abysmal at it. Even when mingling with others, he's always viscerally aware of exactly where Cas is and what he's doing—usually lingering around Meg, which shouldn't get under Dean's skin but does anyway. Seeing as Bobby is Cas' ride, and Bobby is currently enjoying burgers and sitting in a lawn chair with Ellen and Rufus on either side of him, Cas is pretty stuck. He can't really leave. 

The thing is, Dean can see that Cas doesn't really mind. If he did, he'd just fucking walk—he's a determined fucker like that. But no, Cas is clearly enjoying himself. He's obviously enjoying his burger—he has always loved Dean's burgers. He's obviously enjoying the time with friends, some he hasn't seen in three years, relaxing into familiar faces and what's likely the feeling of home. 

However, Dean is painfully aware that Cas is watching him. He can  _ feel  _ it. He's always felt the weight of Cas' gaze like a tangible touch, a steady one, a heavy one. It always draws him in, and today is no exception. So many times that it's pretty much a joke to pretend otherwise, Dean finds himself turning to meet Cas' waiting gaze, the two of them staring at each other for long moments that seem to yawn between them. And then someone will interrupt, thankfully, making their locked gaze splinter and fall aside. 

It keeps happening over and over, to the point that Dean is restless. He feels sort of hot and trapped. Despite being outside, he feels like he needs a breath of fresh air, just a chance to get away. Right now, getting out from under the wild magnitude of Cas' presence is the only thing that might save him from doing something stupid later. 

He slips into the house the moment he gets the chance, taking in a deep breath as he heads into his kitchen. He braces his hands on the counter and closes his eyes, inwardly reminding himself over and over that Cas doesn't want him—not his body, not his apologies, not  _ him.  _ Not even to be his friend. 

Dean had Cas. He  _ had  _ him, he really did, and then he lost him. And that's all there is to it. He had him, and now he doesn't, so he's gotta get a grip. 

It's too late, and he  _ knows  _ that. He really does. He just has so much he wishes he could say to Cas, so much he wishes he could explain, so much he wishes Cas could  _ know.  _ That Dean hasn't forgotten what it's like to kiss him, that the ghosts of their last touch haunts him, that he would go back to suffer through his whole life again just to change their ending. 

Above all, he wishes Cas knew that he was the big, earth-shattering, inescapable love of Dean's life. He never said it. Why didn't he say it? 

"Dean?" 

Jolting, Dean's head snaps up, and he blinks rapidly to see Cas standing in the doorway to his kitchen. For a second, they stare at each other, neither of them seeming to breathe. Dean's heart quivers and trembles in his chest, a stark reminder who has control over it. Cas. It was always Cas. 

"Hey, Cas," Dean croaks, eventually. He clears his throat. "What're you doing in here, man?" 

"I saw you come in." Cas flicks his gaze over Dean, then moves into the room, stopping on the other side of the counter, the small island between them. Everything else between them is less physical, but it's all even more adept at keeping them apart. "I just—I suppose I wanted to make sure you were alright. Are you...alright, Dean?" 

"Yeah, no, I'm good," Dean lies. He lifts a hand and waves it flippantly. "Crowds, ya know? Gets kinda stuffy sometimes. Thanks, though." 

"Have you been avoiding me?" Cas asks bluntly. 

Dean coughs. "What? No. I mean, not in a bad way, or anything. I just figured—well, you kinda said we should go our separate ways, so." 

"Yes," Cas agrees, "I did," but he doesn't look particularly happy about it. He's frowning, a small wrinkle in between his eyebrows. He stares at Dean, scanning his face, eyes so goddamn blue. 

"Change your mind?" Dean asks cautiously. 

Cas frowns harder. "No." 

"Right, okay. Well." Dean looks down at the counter, then looks back up, taking a deep breath and nodding at him. "Sleeping dogs. Got it." 

"You're allergic to dogs." 

"It's a metaphor, Cas." 

"I know." Cas looks somehow  _ more  _ displeased and he pushes back from the counter, moving around it, only to come to a halt when Dean steps back and holds up a hand. He blinks. 

Dean swallows. "Hey, woah, that's—you know, it's best if we have, um, personal space." 

"Personal space," Cas echoes flatly, in the tone of a person who has seen Dean naked and finds the idea absolutely ridiculous, which  _ fair,  _ but Dean's heart is doing stupid things in his chest and personal space might be the last strained thread holding his sanity in place. Cas squints at him. "Why?" 

"I'm flesh and blood, sweetheart," Dean says, the old endearment rolling off his tongue with overbearing familiarity. He grimaces. "Can't help it if I've got some ideas that seem a whole helluva lot louder the closer you get. You wanna go our separate ways, that's fine, I can respect it, but—but I—" 

"This," Cas murmurs.  _ "This  _ is why we can't be friends, Dean." 

Dean drops his hand, closing his eyes. "Right. Guess that's my fault, too, huh?" 

"I—" Cas stalls out, and when Dean opens his eyes, he's shaking his head. His chest expands on a sharp inhale, swelling, and he flicks bright eyes up to lock onto Dean's. "You are not alone in this complication if we're being completely honest." 

_ This complication,  _ Dean thinks. Like it's a goddamn problem that they want each other so badly they can't even stand too close to each other without struggling to breathe. Like what they want isn't something they can  _ have,  _ and fuck, that's Dean's fault. All of this is his fault. He  _ had  _ him. Fuck. 

"All the more reason for personal space," Dean rasps, balling his hand into a fist at his side. Restraint isn't his strong suit. That was always Cas' specialty, not his. Dean's better at ignoring that he wants things at all, while Cas acknowledges the things he desires and convinces himself he shouldn't, or can't, or will never have them. 

But Dean can't ignore this. He's already faced it, already  _ claimed  _ it, and then he lost it. He's not sure how he's supposed to bounce back from that. Three years, and he still hasn't managed to. 

Cas frowns again. "Yes, you—of course you're right. I don't mean to...make this difficult on either of us. If you're alright, I'll leave you be." 

"And if I'm not?" Dean blurts out as Cas takes a solid step back. The distance between them seems distorted, simultaneously too small and too big. 

"If you're not…" Cas searches his face for a long moment, then seems to waver in place. He sways forward, only to jerk back again. "If you aren't, then I would want to help you. I still—" 

"Care?" Dean suggests. 

"I would want to help you," Cas repeats firmly, as if avoiding the question will save either of them from what they already know. Dean can see it written in his every action, every expression, every word. He cares. He doesn't know how to stop. 

Dean licks his lips. "You know how you could help me, Cas? I mean really, _really_ help me?" 

"How?" Cas asks, his voice soft, gaze already tracking down to Dean's lips and getting stuck there. 

"Come here," Dean murmurs, heart thumping heavy in his chest, a turmoil of want stinging the base of his throat, stealing his breath away. 

Cas wavers again for a long moment, swaying in and out like Dean has his own gravitational pull. Dean's hot all over, flushed. He  _ had  _ Cas, and fuck if he doesn't still want him. Right now. Right here. It's a bad idea. It's the  _ worst  _ idea. Dean couldn't find a fuck to give if his life depended on it. 

The anticipation of it threatens to take his pitiful amount of restrain and snap it. Personal space seems so stupid suddenly, in retrospect. Cas not being close, not being as close as he can get, it's the dumbest thing Dean has ever thought up. 

Cas takes a step closer, breath shuddering out of him the same time that Dean's breath hitches. It's going to be a mistake, of course it is, but Dean has made so many in his life that this one will likely be the healthiest one he ever gives into. The sleeping dogs are stirring, and it's not going to end well. It's really not. Dean wants them to wake up and  _ howl.  _

"How is this helping?" Cas asks, close enough to reach out and touch. Solid. Real. Right fucking  _ there  _ and so goddamn achingly beautiful that it hurts. 

"It's helping. I'm feeling better already, sweetheart. Come here, come—" Dean bites off the end of his sentence when Cas moves in, easing around the counter until they're so close they're sharing the same pocket of air—must be a little thin because neither of them are breathing right. 

_ He cares, he wants me, he was mine once,  _ Dean thinks a little deliriously, nearly shaking from how brittle all of this feels, like one touch might shatter it all apart and reveal that it was only a mirage. 

Cas' hand is suddenly cupping his cheek, face hovering closer, those blue eyes fluttering shut. Dean instantly feels drunk. His eyes droop. He's got that giddy, bubbly feeling like he's ten feet tall and capable of saving the world. Nothing hurts. Everything feels safe and far away, just this gathering him up and stealing his focus. 

"Oh, shit!" 

Cas wrenches backwards as Dean's eyes snap open, and it's like a spell has been lifted and broken. They both skitter away from each other to opposite sides of the counter, breathing hard, turning to stare at Sam, who looks like he has never actually regretted anything more in his life. He also looks incredibly awkward, arms full of plates that have hotdogs and hamburgers stacked on them, shuffling a little in the doorway as he looks between them with wide eyes. 

"Sorry," Sam blurts out, and he sounds it. "Shit. I'm—I didn't mean to, um, interrupt. I was just—"

"You're not interrupting anything," Cas says sharply, a bold-faced  _ lie.  _ "Excuse me." 

Cas sweeps out of the kitchen without looking back, his head ducked as he brushes past Sam, who watches him go while biting his lip. Dean braces his hands on the counter again and groans. He leans forward to put his elbows down and lift his hands, covering his face. Jesus fucking Christ. 

"Dean," Sam says tentatively, easing into the room when Dean looks up, putting the plates down, "I really am sorry, dude." 

"It's—it's fine," Dean mumbles. He heaves a sigh and straightens up. "Nothing was—it was nothing."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "No, man, that was definitely  _ something.  _ I thought you said you two weren't—that he isn't—" 

"We  _ aren't,"  _ Dean insists, "and he wasn't." 

"Kinda looked like you were, and he was about to," Sam points out, lips twitching. 

Dean clears his throat. "That was a...miscalculation on both our parts. Won't happen again, probably." 

"Okay, but...you were going for it, weren't you?" 

"It's  _ Cas,  _ Sam. What the hell do you think?" 

"Yeah," Sam says gently, "I know." 

"Well." Dean takes a deep breath and forces a smile onto his face, giving a weak shrug. "When do we ever get the things we want? Not often. That's just the way the ball rolls sometimes, I guess." 

Sam purses his lips, narrowing his eyes. "Dean, when two people want each other, there's usually a chance that—that it works out. A  _ chance, _ at the very least. All I'm saying is...why not?" 

"We had our chance, Sammy," Dean whispers, swallowing thickly, thinking  _ I had him, I had him, I had him.  _ "But I blew it." 

"Maybe you'll get another one," Sam suggests, his eyes soft and a little sad, lips tipped down. "You should get another one. You deserve that."

Dean smiles without any humor. "It's a nice thought, but Cas doesn't want that." 

"How do you know?" Sam asks. 

"I just do," Dean murmurs. 

And he does. It's not even something he needs to contemplate. Even without Cas telling him that they can't even be friends, that he didn't come back for Dean, that they'll never do anything again, Dean knows. He had Cas once, and then he lost him. 

Lost isn't really the word for it. 

* * *

_ Three years ago…  _

Dean doesn't really know how he ended up here. He just opens his eyes, and he's staring at the little flowerpot in front of Sam's door that Jess painted. There's no flower in it, but there never really has been. The swirling designs are distinct in their cuteness and immediately recognizable. 

It takes Dean a second to realize what woke him up, and then he's blinking blearily at Sam, who is staring down at him from his doorway with a hard jaw and shrewd eyes. It's been months since they've exchanged more than a few, barbed words at a time. Dean keeps leaving the ingredients to Sam's favorite meal that Dean cooks on his stoop, even though they're not talking. He doesn't want Sam to go without it. He wonders if Sam cooks it, if it tastes the same as Dean's does, if he puts the ingredients away or tosses them out. 

Sam's jaw works for a long moment, then his nostrils flare and he shuts the door with a harsh slam. Dean lets his head slump back down to the ground and closes his eyes again. He'll just sleep this off and drag himself up in the morning. 

At some point later, Dean's eyes snap open to rough hands grabbing him by the arms and hauling up. Sam's lips are pressed into a thin line, and the grip of his broad hands are a bit too tight. Dean's head wobbles on his neck, the world unfurling before his very eyes, like a drop of dye in water. Everything feels so intensely  _ fake,  _ like maybe all of this is just a dream. The world can't be real if it's hazy like this. 

"You freaking  _ reek,  _ Dean," Sam hisses, dragging him inside with a grunt. 

Dean tries to get his footing, then can't manage it, stumbling and slumping into his brother, and he says, "No, Sammy, don't. Jus' don't look at me right now, man. Dunno why I'm here. I don't know how I got here. Don't take care of me like this. Not like Dad. Not like Dad. Sam, not like Dad." 

"Well, that's too fucking  _ bad,"  _ Sam snaps, his teeth audibly grinding as he half-stumbles, half-jerks Dean over to a twin air-mattress that's sitting smack dead in the middle of his living room. "It is  _ just  _ like Dad, Dean. Just like him. Just like the things you had to do for him, I'm doing for you." 

"Stop it," Dean mumbles. 

"No," Sam says harshly, then tips Dean down onto the air-mattress. 

Dean's delicate stomach doesn't appreciate being dumped like that, so he garbles, "Oh, god," and lifts a shaky hand to try to hold it in, then, "M'gonna be sick," right before he turns his head and makes very good on his promise. 

Sam never had to take care of John when he was like this, so he doesn't know the ins-and-outs of it. Dean always made sure Sam stayed out of it, sending him to his room, making him look away, hiding their Dad away alone until he inevitably got up and disappeared again for another start to the same cycle. By the time Dean was eight, he had something of a routine going on. He knew to keep a bowl, or bucket, or bag on hand for this part. 

Sam doesn't, and there's nothing Dean can do, so it's the beige carpet of Sam's living room floor that collects Dean's sick. Sam makes a sound of disgust, and Dean almost tips right off the mattress and faceplants his own vomit, but he manages to shakily push himself back from the deflated edge. Dean sinks into the middle, mouth sour. 

"God, Dean, what are you  _ doing?"  _ Sam whispers harshly, sounding angry, sounding hurt. His footsteps fade away a moment later. 

Dean breathes for a while, trying to make sense of Sam's question. It's a fair question, Dean's sure. What is he doing? How the fuck did he get here? He was—he had something he was doing. Visiting a friend? Crowley, he thinks. Yeah, it was Crowley, and they were catching up because it had been a while, but then—but then? 

Crowley had been drinking, and Dean—well, Dean had stared at the glass long enough and hard enough that Crowley smirked and offered it to him. Dean's pretty sure he took it. Evidence suggests he took it. He knows he wanted it. He knows that he wanted more, that he likely had more. Everything sort of fades out, growing hazy, and he doesn't quite remember what came after. 

There's the sound of a grunt and a bristle-brush scrubbing into the carpet. Dean cautiously turns his head, staring blearily at Sam, who is cleaning up his vomit. He's doing it wrong. There's going to be a stain because he doesn't know the proper clean-up products to use, or the order in which to use them. Dean wants to tell him, wants to help so there won't be a stain, but he can't open his mouth without the lurching sensation of nearly being sick again. 

By the time he's breathed himself into mostly settled, the stain has already set in and there's really no point in trying to correct Sam now. Instead, he slurs out, "Are you wearing an apron?" 

_ "Yes,  _ Dean, I'm wearing an apron." Sam shoots him a cutting look, eyes blazing. "Is there something funny about me not wanting to get my brother's vomit all over me?" 

"Hilarious," Dean mumbles. 

Sam is still for a long moment, and then he wearily drops the brush, pulls his rubber gloves off, and slumps against the side of the sagging mattress with a sigh. He closes his eyes and reaches up with one hand to rub his cheek, looking exhausted. It must be late. He should be in bed. 

After a long moment where Sam's face is scrunched, he opens his eyes and stares at Dean, his throat bobbing. He looks—sad. Dean doesn't like it. In his drunken stupor, he fumbles a clammy hand out to reach out and tug on Sam's nose, pretending to 'catch it' like he used to when Sam was a toddler. He even sticks his thumb between his fingers and wiggles it. That used to make Sam burst out into peal of baby giggles, little hands clapping. 

Sam doesn't laugh now. He doesn't even smile. 

"Is this how you felt?" Sam whispers. "Do you want me to understand? Is that why you're doing this? I wish I could help you. I'm so _angry_ that you won't let me help you. I don't even have it half as bad as you did, do I?" 

Dean's fingers go slack. He lets them drop back to the air-mattress. Slowly, he breathes, but the way he's feeling sick right now has nothing to do with the drink souring in his stomach and everything to do with how his little brother is looking at him. 

No, Sam doesn't have it half as bad as Dean did, not in reality. Dean spent years doing this kind of shit for their dad, and John was the kind of drunk who got meaner and nastier the more intoxicated he was. On top of that, Dean was taking care of Sam the whole time—feeding him, making sure he got to and from school, making sure he had a roof over his head, keeping the full brunt of how shitty everything was away from him. 

That doesn't excuse  _ this,  _ though. Dean can feel his eyes stinging a little, a heavy weight settling on his chest. He tried so hard to keep this from ever being something Sam had to deal with, in regards to their dad; he never thought Sam would have to deal with it with  _ him.  _ He hates it. He doesn't want Sam to understand, not even a little bit of it. 

Sam is looking at him like he's not even here, like he's talking to himself more than anything. Dean remembers doing that, asking his father why and feeling as if he was talking to a shell, because the person he asked never seemed to be his father at all. Just a man too far gone, unable to communicate or see things the way they were. 

Dean wants to explain it. He wants to be able to tell Sam what this is like for him. How it  _ tastes.  _ How it burns him, how he needs it to, how he can't sleep without it. How, sometimes, he feels like he can't breathe without it. How he never means for it to happen, how it's only supposed to be a sip, how he doesn't know why he's doing this, only that he can't fathom how he's ever going to stop. How he doesn't want to stop, and how he hates himself for that. 

But what comes out when he opens his mouth is a slurred, "S'okay, Sammy. S'gonna be okay. I'm gonna make sure you're okay." 

Sam stares at him, then slowly bends his head down and rests it on the side of the mattress, swallowing convulsively and squeezing his eyes shut so tight that they crinkle, just like he used to when he was scared of the monsters under his bed that Dean had to pretend to fight for him before he'd go to sleep. 

Dean closes his eyes and thinks about how he was never scared of monsters under the bed. He learned too young that a lot of monsters weren't under the bed, but on top of them, slumping down and struggling not to drown in their own vomit. Is Dean a monster now? Like father, like son. 

For a while, Dean drifts. He stops thinking about much of anything at all. He forces himself awake every time he slips further down the slippery slope towards his empty dreams, knowing he can't sleep on his back like this, because the threat of actually drowning in his own vomit is very real. Sam should have laid him on his side, but Sam doesn't know that, and Dean can't bring himself to tell him. 

Sam doesn't move, or speak, or cry. He just stays where he is, still squeezing his eyes shut like he's scared of what awaits him when he opens them. 

Then, a knock. 

With a sigh, Sam's head slowly raises, and he sends Dean a quick look before getting to his feet. He pads over to the door. Dean struggles to get his second eye open, feeling disembodied from every limb, even the seemingly simpler ones to control. 

The door swings open, revealing a rumpled and uncertain Cas. He's wearing Dean's shirt. His hands are flexing at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling over and over. His blue eyes flit to Dean almost immediately, and his expression just—fractures. 

"I'm sorry, Cas," Sam says. "I tried to tell you. I really did, man." 

Cas stares right at Dean, eyes so endlessly blue and shining just a little. "He's—is he—" 

"Wasted," Sam confirms. 

"Should I take him home?" Cas murmurs. 

"I don't—" Sam falters, glancing over his shoulder at Dean, then he looks away. The back of his head tilts forward. His hair is probably falling into his face. "I don't know how to take care of him like this. I've never had to. He can sleep it off here, I guess, but as soon as he's functional...he's gotta go. Jesus, Cas, I don't even know where Baby is." 

"He'll figure it out once he's—better." Cas takes a deep breath and steps into the house, still staring at Dean. "Thank you for—I know you two are struggling right now, Sam." 

"He's my brother," Sam murmurs. 

Cas nods. "I know. Can I…?" 

"Yeah, man," Sam says, stepping back. "I'm gonna go get a shower. I feel kinda gross. You'll stay?" 

"Of course," Cas replies, like  _ where else would I go,  _ like  _ I will never leave,  _ like  _ if this is the rest of my life, I should get started now, because I'm not going anywhere.  _

Dean feels sick again—once more, it's nothing to do with the alcohol. He has never felt this shitty in his entire goddamn life. Cas' love for him is so big, almost too much right this second, burning so bright it could turn them both to ash. Cas would let it. He'd stand in the flames and melt down with a goddamn smile in his face, like all he's ever wanted was to feel warm. It's not fair. 

Cas moves further into the room as Sam heads up the hall, tugging his apron off as he goes. Dean can see Cas taking everything in—the vomit stain, the sweat on Dean's skin and clinging to his shirt, the way Dean slumps uselessly on the bed. He's never seen Dean like this, but he doesn't look particularly surprised, almost as if it makes no difference. 

To him, it probably doesn't. 

Dean has made sure not to let it get this bad around Cas, always careful, so damn unwilling to show the full potential of how fucked up he is. He comes stumbling home sometimes, yes, but he's always sure to pass out on the couch, rather than crawl into bed with Cas like he desperately wants to. He keeps the beers stocked in the fridge and has one nearly every half-hour that he's home, sure, but he's a functioning alcoholic who can play it off just fine. He goes out to get absolutely black-out drunk, true, but he always has a flippant excuse for why he didn't come home, why he didn't call. 

Staring at Cas now, Dean can see that he knew. Of course he knew. Cas isn't stupid. He knows pretty much everything about Dean—when he's upset, when he's happy, what he's trying to say when it feels like he can't say anything at all, what he wants when he's never really worked that out himself. It only makes sense that Cas knows this part of him, too. Sam was trying to warn him, but Cas had known; it just hadn't changed anything. 

Their relationship has been—strained. When they're not fucking, they're fighting. Dean comes home all hours of the night. Dean forgets previous promises he made. Dean snaps at Cas for asking too many questions he doesn't want to answer, and he pulls away from comforting touches more than he ever has because he's sure he doesn't deserve them, and he fusses about Cas still spending time with Sam, and he just keeps making it worse and worse. 

Cas doesn't take anything laying down, not really. He gives as good as he gets. He keeps asking his damn questions, and he keeps reaching out to touch, and he refuses to distance himself from Sam, and he deals with the worst like he's made for it. 

"Cas," Dean croaks. 

"Hello, Dean," Cas murmurs, slowly kneeling down beside the air-mattress and peering at him without any judgement on his face. 

It's too much. It's not enough, not for Cas. Dean wants him to yell, to kick Dean's ass from one side of the house to the other, to get as far away from the disaster that is Dean Winchester as he can. Every single thing is falling apart—Dean, his grip on reality, their relationship—and Cas remains steady, as if he'd like nothing more than to be buried in the destruction, as if he's willing to be brought to ruin like the rest of it. 

Cas will stay. Cas will take care of him. He'll learn how to do it. He'll pour out the drinks in their house, no matter if Dean will yell at him for it. He'll keep a bucket in the closet, and he'll know to drag it out when Dean's arriving footfalls are an uneven, stumbling gait. He'll resign himself to a half-life with a hollowed out husk, so long as it's Dean, and he'll wholeheartedly believe that he's happy. 

Because Cas loves him like no one ever has, like no one ever will again. Cas loves him in such an all-encompassing way that there's no room for hate, even when Dean has probably earned it. Cas loves him so much that he doesn't need Dean to be whole, to be okay, to love him back out loud. Cas loves him as he is, as he was, as he will ever be—he'll love Dean all the way into an early grave, if he has to, and be thankful he got the chance. 

It will break his heart every day, and Cas will let it, just to keep loving Dean the way he does. 

And Dean's selfish enough to want him to. 

With a deep sigh, Cas reaches out to grab his slack hand, gently tangling their fingers together. It's the first tender touch they've shared in nearly a month without Dean immediately pulling away. Now, Dean closes his eyes and hangs on as tight as he can when he's this drunk, which isn't very tight at all. 

He thinks that's unfair. Because here, on the cusp of letting go, Dean wants to hold on so tightly that Cas will remember his grip every time it rains, every time his knuckles creak. It's selfish of him to want to remain an imprint on Cas' life, something a little leftover, a thought he can never dislodge from his mind. Dean wants to live there, in Cas' mind and heart, no matter how much it's going to hurt Cas, and it's the worst thing he's ever desired in his life. 

Dean swallows and whispers, "How did the phone call with Gabriel go?" 

"Not very well," Cas says, searching his face, his lips tipped down. "Kali sent him divorce papers. He wants me to be there when he signs them. He's asked me to—Dean, he wants me to come stay with him for a little bit. In New York." 

There's a long stretch of silence, and Dean wavers on the decision he's already made. With that, with the solution cracking open in his mind, he wants to slam it shut again and ignore it. He stares at Cas, realizing they're teetering on the edge of the end, and maybe the best thing he can do for Cas is shove them both over. Cas looks conflicted. 

Dean knows that Cas loves his brother. It's not like the way Dean loves Sam; they're not as close. But they did come from the same ridiculous, religious family that neither of them fit into. Cas is gay. Gabriel is  _ Gabriel.  _ They've bonded over it, over being outcasts, over being the rebels of the family who never wanted them once it became clear they couldn't conform. Gabriel hadn't wanted to, and Cas hadn't been able to—he came out with a crack in his chassis, so to speak, too much heart and too much rebellion and too much of himself to ever try and pretend to be anything else. 

A part of Cas must want to go, and Dean knows that even that part wants Dean to come with him. He knows Dean, so he knows he won't, so he will never ask. Cas just won't go. He'll stay for as long as Dean doesn't gather the courage to do the right thing and ask him to go. Dean's not sure how he's going to manage to convince Cas to leave. 

In the end, he doesn't really have to. Dean forces himself to pull his hand away from Cas and look him in the eye as he rasps, "Cas, man, you gotta go." 

And Cas just—he nods. Just like that. He looks at Dean and nods, and he says, "I know. I am." 

He knows. He is. 

Dean feels the whole world lurch to the side, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and release a measured breath so he won't stain the carpet again. He's so stupid. Of course. Of  _ course  _ Cas knows, of  _ course  _ Cas is going. Dean has to stop underestimating him. 

In his drunken state, Dean has himself convinced that Cas was planning to leave long before he ever suggested it.  _ He's leaving me,  _ Dean thinks, and it feels like a punch directly to his chest. Cas is leaving, and Dean has already succeeded in pushing him away. He's gonna lose him, all because he's already let go. Cas loves him, and he's still leaving, and Dean wants to  _ beg.  _ He wants to  _ plead.  _

He wants to open his mouth for the very first time and let every stupid goddamn confession fall from his lips, everything he ever tried to say and couldn't. All the times he looked at Cas and thought him beautiful. All the times he felt Cas' hands on him and realized the meaning of home. All the times Cas smiled, or laughed, or rolled his eyes, or squinted them, or wore his stupid trenchcoat, or fucked his brains out, or kissed him like it was the best thing he's ever felt, or looked at him like he never wanted to look away—and Dean loved him, loved him, loves him. Just loves him so,  _ so  _ fucking much. 

But he didn't say it then, and it's too late to say it now, and Dean couldn't if he tried. 

So, he swallows it all down and looks at Cas, staring at him. He says, "Maybe that's for the best." 

"Yes," Cas murmurs, pain pinching around his eyes, a sort of desperate hope shining there, "maybe so." 

"Okay," Dean whispers. 

Cas stares at him and says, "Remember your promise to me, Dean."

Dean turns his head away, not saying another word. He doesn't know that he's going to wake up and find Baby. He doesn't know that he's going to drive home with the stench of liquor and vomit clinging to his clothes. He doesn't know that he's going to hold his breath before opening the door, only to walk into his home and find it empty. He doesn't know that he's going to look for someone who's already gone, that he's going to stand in the middle of his living room and stare at all the things that are missing and feel carved out, hollow, broken in their absence. In Cas' absence. He doesn't know that he's going to clench his jaw and walk to the fridge, opening it and leaning in to grab a beer. The first of many. 

He doesn't know that right now, right here, is his last chance to look at Cas when he still has him. Perhaps, if he did, he might actually look. 

But he doesn't. He stares at Sam's wall and says nothing, not even when Cas makes a small, pained sound and gets to his feet, not even when the door gently opens and clicks back as he leaves after promising to stay. He keeps staring at that wall, and that's how Sam finds him when he gets out of the shower—sweating liquor and staring at a wall that serves as a poor substitute for the love of his life, tears running rapidly down his face. 

Years later, Dean will always remember this as the moment he lost Cas for good, except he never really lost him, did he? 

He didn't ask him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not me crying while writing that flashback, no, not at all. 
> 
> full disclosure: i know that this is a serious topic to be tackling in fanfic, and i do treat it that way. i should point out that, yes, i have personal experiences i drew from when writing this. it was emotional and very good for me to work through some things. that being said, this is fic, so it is—most importantly, above all else—a fake story about fake characters. i do try to keep it as realistic to the characters, as well as life just in general, because life is rarely without complications. but, overall, this is fiction. if you're enjoying the story, stick around. if you're not, if it's not healthy for you, if—for any reason at all—it is best that you don't read it, please please please don't. take care of yourselves, first and foremost. 
> 
> also, like, remember that these situations aren't often pretty in real life, either. families DO fall apart because of these things. so do relationships. no, i don't think Dean is at fault for everything, but this is Dean's POV and he would, so that's how it goes. from my standpoint, how i feel about these things are very different from what Dean feels.


	5. Two Minutes to Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! ☺️ Minor warnings for this chapter: 
> 
> Character Injury (resolved), Drug Mentions, Angst and more Angst, references to Underage Drinking and an Underage Alcoholic, also people making good choices, as a treat. 
> 
> Enjoy ;)

The moment Bobby doesn't answer his phone, Dean knows that something is wrong. He can feel the dread settle into his gut, a simple understanding that everything is about to get really, really bad. Bobby always answers his phone. Dean hopes he's just blowing this out of proportion, that there's nothing to stress about, that it's all fine.

It's not. 

When Bobby isn't at home, and his truck is missing, Dean calls just about everyone he knows. No one knows where Bobby is, haven't seen him at all, but they all jump up to join the steadily growing search party. Every single one of them. 

Three hours later, Bobby is located out on a back road on the way from Rufus' house, a detour he probably shouldn't have taken. He's found passed out, bleeding, his truck practically crumbled around him like a soda can. Turns out trees hit back. 

Dean makes it to the hospital first, tearing down the road at way past the speed limit, but all the cops in this town know his car, and they know what's going on. Jody—he thinks it's Jody—follows behind him with her siren blaring, making traffic fall to the side. Dean doesn't slow down, doesn't stop. He swings wildly into the hospital parking lot and runs at full pelt inside, and it's all downhill from there. 

At first, no one can tell him much of anything. Dean isn't Bobby's son; he isn't family. Shit is confidential at the hospital, no matter how much he asks, and pleads, and rants. He paces back and forth, more and more people arriving in their own frazzled worry. Sam and Jess. Ellen and Rufus. Slowly, one by one, the waiting room starts to get full, and it isn't just Dean harassing the nurses anymore. 

Eventually, one of the nurses takes pity, or just finally caves. It might have something to do with Dean telling them that Bobby doesn't  _ have  _ any alive relatives—his family is dead, all except for the family that's here now, so please,  _ please…  _

She tells them, with pity, that they don't really know anything. They don't know if Bobby is going to make it. They're doing everything they can, and they're trying their best, and that's all they can do. She's so sorry, she really is, but she doesn't have anything else to offer to anyone. Have some coffee, try to calm down, you're breathing a little funny, hon, are you—

Dean sits down. 

He puts his face in his hands, and he breathes. The whole world seems to be shaking around him, and it takes him a long time for him to realize that it's just him. He's trembling all over. 

Sam sits next to him, his own worry palpable. His leg is jumping up and down, hands balled into fists. Jess rubs his arm, but he barely seems to notice. It makes sense because Sam and Bobby are close, too. They got close when Bobby sat Sam down and explained some things about addiction, sobriety, and support systems—all while calling Sam an idjit and a good man at the same time. Sam had trailed after Bobby just like Dean did, turning like a wilting flower to Bobby's tendency to feel like a father. They were both weak for it, blooming under his pride, finding familiarity in his gruff, tough-lovin'. Sam was just as eager to have Bobby be family as Dean was, and now they're both struggling. 

Sam has it  _ maybe  _ a little worse, because he has the added weight of being the one to worry about Dean, to sit back in concern and wonder if this is going to be the thing that sends him crawling into the bottle again. He's right to be worried. 

Dean has never been so scared as he is at this moment. His hands are shaking. His mouth is dry. He wants a drink—all the drinks, any drinks, whatever he can drown himself in—with a desperation that rocks him to his core. He can feel the phantom burn of it in his chest, and he wants to chase it. He wants the world to swirl away. 

For some reason, Dean just never—considered this possibility. It has never once crossed his mind that Bobby might not be around to answer his phone. He's always been there, from the moment he entered Dean's life, always. The mere thought, the mere  _ chance,  _ that he's not going to be anymore isn't something he can wrap his mind around. 

For hours, Dean sits in the hospital and tries to convince himself that, no matter what, he's not going to do what everyone expects him to. No one would blame him, he doesn't think. Everyone would likely understand. After all, he doubts he's the only one here craving a stiff drink right now. But, of everyone here, he's the only one that a stiff drink would absolutely wreck beyond repair. 

Bobby wouldn't want that. He wouldn't. Dean tells himself that over and over, clinging to it like a lifeline, chanting it internally until it drowns out the visceral memory of what whiskey tastes like. 

And then, the same nurse from before comes out to update them. Dean shoots out of his seat like a bullet from a gun, white-knuckling Baby's keys in his pocket, preemptively gagging on whatever the nurse hasn't even said yet. She explains, very gently, that Bobby pulled through, but he's paralyzed from the waist down. She tells him that it will be a few days before he wakes up, that it will be even longer before he even leaves the hospital, that maybe they should all go home and get some rest. 

She won't let anyone see him, no matter how much they all ask. She's firm, but gentle, and Dean wants to yell at her until she's as hurt as he is. 

What he does, instead, is stumble forward to hastily choke out, "You can't—whatever meds he's on, you gotta be careful with it. He's decades sober, but he's susceptible to addiction, and he wouldn't—he isn't gonna want to—" 

"Okay," she says calmly, nodding at him. "Thank you for letting us know." 

Then she turns and leaves. Dean sways in place for a second, closing his eyes as his stark mixture of relief and something more painful bears down at him all at once. He sucks in a sharp breath, taking a stumbling step back, and then he has to get out. He has to get away. Right now.  _ Right now.  _

Dean turns and makes his way outside, ignoring it as Sam rushes to catch up with him. He just slides into Baby, not listening as Sam shouts his name, then cranks her up and gets the fuck out. 

He doesn't really know where he's going. He tries to convince himself that he's not going to a bar. He tries to pretend that he can't feel the fuzziness of his teeth, a gritty feeling, aching for the sting of a drink. It's dark out. There's a church sign that he passes that shows the time, digital numbers bright red. Almost midnight. Almost a different day. 

Bobby says that you gotta choose to be sober every single day. He says it's the same as living and loving. Every day, you choose and you choose, and even when it's far easier not to, you do it anyway. 

Dean keeps driving past the ABC store. He exhales. He clenches Baby's wheel and has no idea where he's going until he suddenly ends up somewhere. 

Only last week, Sam had pointed at this house as they drove by, telling Dean in a would-be casual way that it's where Cas is staying now. He'd raised his eyebrows pointedly. Dean had shot him a  _ look  _ and sped up, ignoring that conversation entirely. He hasn't seen Cas since their almost kiss. It's been a month, and every day has been full of thoughts circling around Dean's mind, a steady stream of  _ what if,  _ and  _ I had him,  _ and  _ maybe it's for the best.  _

Right now, Dean doesn't care about that. 

He swings Baby into the driveway, tires rolling over gravel, headlights passing over windows that show no lights on inside. He's barely out of the car before a light flicks on, and then the door is wrenching open, and then Cas is stepping out in a lumpy sweater and thin pajama pants with bees on them. He's barefoot. His collarbones are visible where his sweater slips down. His hair is a mess. He's the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. 

"Dean?" Cas calls out, and there's a note of concern in his voice. He sounds worried. 

Dean doesn't really make the decision to cross the yard, but that's what he finds himself doing anyway. He steps up onto the stoop, taking in the way Cas is looking at him, eyes apprehensive and filled with sadness. It's so obvious in every line of his face how much he  _ cares,  _ how much he wants to help. 

There's no words for this, not really. Dean's throat clicks when he swallows, an awful sound from the heavy lump in his throat. He blinks hard, standing there and not knowing how to ask for what he wants. He never figured that part out. 

Fortunately, Cas knows him—he always knows. He steps out of his house and ever so gently reaches out to guide Dean into a hug. Dean instantly sags into him, gasping out a wet breath and winding his arms around Cas all the way, clinging, burying his face into Cas' shoulder. He feels Cas' fingers cup the back of his head, his other hand moving in slow, lazy circles between his shoulder blades. 

Dean shudders and mumbles, "Bobby's in the hospital. It was a—a car wreck." 

"I know," Cas murmurs in his ear. "Jess called and informed me. She said she would keep me updated as soon as she knew more. The last I heard, no one knew anything. Is he—" 

"Alive," Dean rasps. "He's—he made it, but he's paralyzed from the waist down. Nurse said he's not gonna walk again. But he's—he's okay." 

Cas hums, a soothing sound that reverberates in his chest and into Dean's. "That's good." 

"Yeah," Dean whispers. "I thought—I—" 

"I'm sure you did," Cas says. He slides his hand down from Dean's head, gripping his shoulder to gently push him back, staring at him from up close. Far too close. "Come on, come inside. You should sit down. Does Sam know where you are?" 

Dean flinches at the question, aware that Sam is probably freaking out right now. "No, I didn't say anything. I just...left." 

"Alright." Cas nods and steps back, smoothing his hand down Dean's arm and tugging him inside. 

The first thing he does is lead Dean over to the couch, making him sit, and then he wanders down a separate hall. He comes back quickly, his phone pillowed between his ear and shoulder, murmuring low as he moves into the kitchen next. Dean can hear his own name, as well as Sam's, so that means Cas is handling it for him. Fuck. 

A few minutes later, Cas walks back into the room with a mug in his hands, his phone out of sight. He holds it out to Dean, slowly sitting down on the couch beside him. Coffee. Just how Dean likes it, how he's always taken it—black and strong with enough sugar, a blunt mixture of bitter and sweet that has always appealed to him. Dean takes a sip, staring at the small table in front of him. 

"Shit," Dean says, finally, "I just showed up at your house, huh? I swear I'm not a creep, Cas. Sammy and I drove past here the other day, and he pointed it out, is all. I shouldn't have—I didn't even really mean to end up here. You're not—you didn't sign up to be a part of my support system, man. Jesus. My bullshit is—I'll just go. I'll—" 

"Dean," Cas cuts in, reaching out to touch his wrist, fingers draping over it, "it's fine. You didn't do anything wrong. I promise you I don't mind you coming to me, and I'm—I am thankful to hear the news about Bobby. I quite like him." 

Dean swallows and looks at him. "I want to get black-out drunk so bad I can taste it." 

"Dean," Cas murmurs, lips twitching down. 

"I won't, I swear I won't, but I  _ want  _ to," Dean blurts out. "It's—it's like it's a disease, man. It's like  _ I'm  _ the disease. Bobby understands. So many people don't get it, but he always got it. And it's stupid, it's so stupid, but sometimes I need someone to look at me and tell me that—that it isn't worth it. 'Cause I know, Cas, I do, but being an alcoholic isn't—it isn't what people think it is." 

"What would Bobby say?" Cas asks quietly. 

"He'd say…" Dean pauses, then huffs out a soft, broken chuckle that cracks in the middle. "He'd tell me to pull my head outta my ass and drink some fucking water if I'm that damn thirsty." 

Cas regards him for a long moment, then he very calmly says, "So, pull your head out of your ass and drink your coffee if you're so thirsty, because that's all you're going to get." 

"Yeah, okay," Dean breathes out, nodding. He takes another swallow of his coffee. After, he stares at Cas, just looking at him. "I've never thought about it. About doing—any of this without him. Didn't much like the thought, if I'm honest." 

"I'd imagine so," Cas says. "Facing any portion of your life without someone that important to you feels impossible. It's a trial unlike any other. You could, though. I believe you would, even though it wouldn't be easy. You're one of the bravest and strongest men I've ever known, Dean." 

"God, Cas." Dean tilts his head back and blinks up at the ceiling, his hands curled tight around the hot ceramic encasing his coffee. He exhales slowly and swallows. "You're killing me here, sweetheart." 

"Bobby is fine," Cas tells him, squeezing his wrist gently. "I'm sure it will be an adjustment, but you don't have to face that impossibility yet." 

Dean drops his head, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I think I'm gonna build him a ramp into his house while he's still in the hospital. Gonna see if there's any kinda modifications I can do on his house to help him get around easier. He's gonna be in a wheelchair, so I gotta find a way to make it where he can reach the sinks and—and things like that. Baby's trunk is big enough to fit a wheelchair, ain't it?" 

"I believe so." Cas' lips quirk up, his gaze fond. They stare at each other for a long moment, and he slowly lifts his hand from Dean's wrist to press the pads of his fingers against Dean's cheek, brushing over the bridge of his nose. Dean used to wake up to him doing that, tracing his freckles. "You're a good man, Dean Winchester. Did you know?" 

"It's the least I could do for him." Dean's eyes flutter shut, words going soft and syrupy. Cas' touch makes his skin tingle. "You have no idea the things he's done for me. He's put up with so much of my shit, man. He's—he's like what a dad should be." 

"He's still here, Dean," Cas says softly. "He's still here." 

Dean rocks forward into Cas' hand, his own swinging wide to plunk the coffee mug down on the little table in front of the couch. There's a tiny hitch in Cas' breath when Dean reaches out for him, shaking hands landing flat against his chest and sliding up to his shoulders, easing into the curves of either side of his neck. He thinks  _ so are you, Cas, so are you,  _ and he leans in until their foreheads settle together with a small tap. 

It's far too much touching for two people who aren't even friends. Dean knows it's wrong to abuse this moment, to capitalize on what he can get away with right now—this closeness, this contact, this facade that he still has Cas, even when he doesn't. But, right now, Dean wants to be touched. He wants to be held. He wants to be comforted. 

Cas used to touch him all the time. He was always the one to cuddle up to him, to reach out for the small, sweet contact that Dean instinctively shied away from. It all felt so heavy, so impactful. Every single touch Cas ever gave, it felt like it was branded into Dean's skin, sinking in deep enough to mark his fucking soul. And he didn't know what to do with that, with unraveling like a loose thread every time Cas held his hand, or cupped his cheek, or wrapped him in a hug. All because Dean loved him so much that it split him open to expose the cavern inside him, threatening to make him ravenous. 

He's ravenous now, practically parched with how long it has been. He wants to go back and kick his own teeth in for ever pulling away from everything Cas tried to give him, for being so goddamn afraid and stupid that he cost himself the chance to appreciate it while he still had it. He doesn't get to have it now. It's not his anymore. Asking for it, taking it, he's wrong for doing so. 

He does it anyway, and Cas lets him. 

"Being sober and an alcoholic isn't all that I am, Cas," Dean breathes out. "My life isn't just a constant want for a fucking beer. I got family. I gotta job. I go about my day sometimes without ever thinking about drinking a drop. I forget sometimes that I've ever been drunk at all, just like I forget that I'm sober every once in a while. There's other things that I—things that matter more. Things that I want that doesn't have shit to do with it." 

Cas' hand hovers over his jaw, the tiniest brush of his fingers lingering there. He's wavering. His breathing has gone all funny. He croaks, "Dean," like a warning, like he's wrapped that name and who it belongs to in caution-tape in his mind. 

"I'm here 'cause you're the only person I want to be around when I'm falling apart, man. Sammy can't see me like this. But you? You can. You  _ have.  _ You treat me the same when I'm like this as you do when I put myself back together," Dean tells him. "And I know, Cas, I  _ know  _ it isn't fair to you that I came here when we agreed to—when you said—" 

"Separate ways," Cas whispers, his fingers pressing in, dragging along his jaw. 

Dean feels a shiver run through him. "Yeah, that. Separate ways. Sleeping dogs. I just—Cas, I—" 

"I'm not something you can lose yourself in, Dean. I will comfort you. I will help. It isn't helping to do _this_ when there isn't a—" Cas falters and makes a low, frustrated sound that goes muffled behind his lips. His nose brushes Dean's. "There's no point." 

"Sweetheart," Dean chokes out, fingers cradling the back of Cas' neck, arms tensing to hold himself back, to stop himself from yanking Cas in. 

One kiss, and Dean knows they'll be fucking on this couch. He can feel it. The tension. The desperation. It's stifling, crowding in all around him, making his skin prickle and his breath choppy, head a mess of empty thoughts that echo without a sound. It's such a bad idea. He craves it like an addict, like he can't help but want it, need it, and he would know. It wouldn't be good for him, not right now. Not with what's going on with Bobby, not when he and Cas aren't on the same page, not when it could go so, so wrong later. He knows he shouldn't. He knows that. 

"There's no point," Cas insists, but his voice is faint and his head is tipping up of its own accord, needing no guidance from Dean at all. 

The shrill ring of Dean's phone barely even registers, but it's enough to make both of them stiffen a breath away, not breathing. It rings, and rings, and rings. Dean's eyes flutter open, and he forces himself to let go of the back of Cas' neck and lean back, his heart racing in his chest. By the time he manages to disentangle himself, his phone has stopped ringing altogether. 

It's a display of strength that Dean didn't even know he had. A resilience to do what's best for him, because right now, it _wouldn't_ be best to do what he really, _really_ wants to. There's too much they haven't figured out, too much they haven't addressed, too much that remains on shaky ground. Cas is right—there would be no point, and it isn't helping either of them by doing it. 

Cas stares at him for a long moment, pupils blown wide, so much naked hunger in his face that Dean almost pushes Cas back into the couch and kisses him any-fucking-way. However, Cas blinks hard, taking a settling breath, and he scoots back a little. He puts space between them. A chasm of safety. 

Dean is simultaneously furious with himself and very proud. He's respecting Cas and his decisions, after all. He's making choices for himself that are better in the long-run. He's  _ trying.  _ He really is. Yet, he's so pissed off because he has no idea what the fuck is going on. 

"Cas, what are we doing?" Dean asks. 

"I don't know," Cas admits, one hand balling into a fist on his knee. "I don't—Dean, I truly could not tell you. I think it's in both of our best interest if we stop doing—this. We keep doing this. But I don't know—I don't know anything right now." 

"Hey, man, you're steering this boat," Dean tells him, because he is. Dean's in no position to make any sort of decisions here, not after everything. Besides, he's practically laid out all his cards. Cas hasn't shown his hand at all. "Whatever you think is best. I can go. Say the word, and I'll go." 

"Stay," Cas says, instead. He lifts his gaze to Dean's, eyebrows furrowed. "I think you should stay for the night. Just on the couch. I would prefer to know that you're not alone, and that you can get to me should you need me, at least for tonight. You said I didn't sign up to be a part of your support system, but Dean, I will always support you. That doesn't change no matter what we're—doing." 

_ I love you, I love you, I'm in love with you,  _ Dean thinks helplessly, and he always has been, and he should have said it. He should have. He's so stupid. 

"Thanks," Dean murmurs. "Seriously, thank you." 

"Get some sleep, Dean," Cas tells him, standing up from the couch.

"Night, Cas," Dean says, watching him head towards the hallway. 

Cas pauses at the corner of the wall, hand resting against the turn of it, head swiveling so he can look at Dean head-on. "Don't leave without telling me." 

"I won't," Dean promises. 

Despite the fact that Dean has made promises before and broken them, Cas still immediately trusts his word. He nods and lingers for another second, taking Dean in, and then he turns and walks away. 

Dean lays down on the couch with a deep sigh, swinging an arm over his eyes. He honestly has no idea what the fuck is happening. He just knows that he's desperate for it not to stop. 

This time, he keeps his promise. 

* * *

_ Two years ago…  _

"Hi, my name is Dean Winchester, and I'm an alcoholic." 

There's a chorus of, "Hi, Dean," and "Hey, Dean," which he finds as a mixed bag of people sounding kind or just uncaring. You can always tell who the people are who want to be here, and the people who don't, just by what kind of greeting they give. To start with, Dean never greeted anyone at all. 

"Not gonna lie, I always thought that was a pretty shitty way to start off," Dean mutters. "It's not like you don't already  _ know,  _ ya know? Why the fuck else would I be here, right?" 

This earns a few chuckles from the crowd, some snorts, some people looking disapproving. Dean gives a wobbly smile, then sighs. 

"I've been sober for a year now." Dean picks up his chip and flashes it with grimace. "Just got my first year chip. It's a nice gesture and all, but I'm probably gonna lose it. My sponsor, Bobby—you all know Bobby—" Dean points him out, just to make him scowl as everyone looks at him. "Yeah, him. Anyway, he said I could keep it in my wallet, but I'm not really big on that idea, either." 

"I keep mine on my keychain," a woman calls out from the front row, jangling her keys to show them. 

"That's nice," Dean mutters. "Not what I'm going for, though. Ya know, they made me get up here for a speech this time, since it's been a year and I ain't been behind the microphone yet. Well, they couldn't  _ force  _ me, but they were being real pushy about it. Had to agree to get 'em off my back, 'cause I ain't  _ never _ met a determined fucker like a sober alcoholic. Ain't never met one that's bad at nagging, either." 

"Preach," a man calls from the back row, throwing up his hand with a chuckle. 

Dean snorts. "Anyway, I don't really have muchta say, to tell ya the truth. I guess I don't know where to put my chip because I don't...really want it? I know, I know, that's practically blasphemy up in here, but I don't mean it like that. I'm sober. I  _ want  _ to be sober. I work hard to be sober. It's just that it really fucking sucks a lot of the time, and I don't think I want the reminder floating around in my pocket, is all. Some people take pride in it, and to each is their own, but me? Nah, I'd rather just be a man who doesn't drink and doesn't get prizes for it." 

There's a stillness in the room, quiet, people being attentive. They're listening. It's the kind of perked ears that come from people who get it, people who are just like him. Even if they feel differently, they can see why he feels the way he does. 

Dean fiddles with his chip, flipping it idly between his fingers, not paying attention to anyone out in the crowd, not even Bobby. "I guess I could come up here and give the whole tragic backstory. Mom died when I was four, Dad decided to become a raging alcoholic after, I had to raise my brother. Grew up hating any drunk I met, right up until I became one. Swore off drinking 'til a few days after my dad died, then decided to follow in his footsteps. Yada, yada, yada. All that sad shit. But what does it matter, really? 'Cause, once you're sober, it's supposed to get easier, isn't it? Once you get over that first hill, it's all supposed to make some kinda sense." 

If anyone is moving, or breathing, he can't tell. Dean just keeps flipping his coin, watching it dip in and out between his fingers. 

"Truth is, it doesn't," he continues. "I'm a year in, and this shit still sucks. You ever wonder why we always hear  _ recovering  _ alcoholic, or  _ recovering  _ addict. Never recovered. Never cured. It's 'cause we all learn we're always gonna be recovering. Bobby ain't had a drop in over fifteen years, and he's still an alcoholic just like little ol' me. Is that what we're signing up for? That, or death? Just 'cause we can't handle our shit like other people? A friend of mine told me that we're all addicts deep down, just some people ain't found their drug yet. But hey, I found mine, and I'm steering clear. So, here ya go, a chip! I mean, give me a fucking break, ya know? I just wanna get where it sucks a little less, is all, and Bobby swears it does. He's got me believing that shit, too, but he's a pushy old man who nags worse than anyone I know." 

"Well, I ain't  _ wrong,"  _ Bobby calls out, grumpy as always. "Stop flipping that chip around, boy, and get on to saying something productive. I want rainbows coming outta your ass, or I'll kick you in it." 

"See?" Dean asks pointedly, raising his eyebrows. When people laugh, he rolls his eyes and flips the chip up, catching it in the air and slipping it into his pocket. "Really, though, I can't complain. I haven't thrown up in a year, and that's real nice. And shit, me and my brother are alright after everything, which matters more than any drink I've ever had. Whatever your reasons, I guess, we all got 'em and we're all dealing with this shit together. But, if Bobby's to be believed, we got something to look forward to. I reckon we ought to look forward to it."

He gives a cheeky, sarcastic bow, says his thank you and marches on to his chair. Bobby kicks him in his ankle, and Dean elbows him in his side, and the next person steps up behind the microphone. 

The meeting continues. 

After it breaks up, Dean immediately goes to the snack table and steals a donut. This is his favorite part of any meeting he's ever been at. Honestly, they should just give out snacks instead of chips. That's a whole helluva lot more motivation, in his mind. 

He does mingle with a few people, some that have been here as long or longer than he has, a few who are a little newer. There's Elaine, a mother of two with a dead husband, working as a lawyer and recently just relapsed after six years 'cause her son died. There's Kenneth, a marine who falls off the wagon every fourth of July. There's Fiona, who's main drug of choice was cocaine until her little brother got into it and almost died. There's George, who used to do acid back in the eighties but hasn't done one drug or drank one drop in over thirty years. There's Charla, who has only been coming for six months, just starting to slowly look better and like she actually wants to be here at all. 

Dean doesn't really like the meetings, most of the time. The twelve-step program is there for a reason, but it isn't flexible for every single person. Every group like this does it differently, and Dean's glad he's lucked out to have a more relaxed group to go to—not so religious, not so uptight, just a bit more willing to adapt to the person, rather than the person adapting to it. The support is the main point, the structure and the guidance. 

Still, Dean gets kinda stuffy during these things, and he's hoping that it'll get better with time. When he first started showing up, he never spoke to anyone other than Bobby. For a long time, he didn't know that it was a mixture of AA and NA occupants that met up, mostly because he rarely listened. Back then, he hated absolutely everyone and everything, being sober most of all. 

Bobby is at ease in situations such as these. He's not like Dean, struggling to know what to say, itching to get away from the others, needing fresh air. Dean leaves him in his element and slips outside, nodding as Marcel puts out his cigarette and heads past him to go back in. He's been going through some stuff at home, so he picked smoking up again to help cope with the stress, figuring it was a better alternative to Heroin—Dean can't really argue with that one. 

Exhaling heavily into the quiet night, Dean moves over to lean against the railing on the stairs, tipping his head back to gaze up at the stars. It's a nice night out, cool but not too cold. He threads his fingers together and basks in the solitude. 

Yeah, this shit sucks most of the time, but it's the little things. Dean can't remember the last time he sat outside just to enjoy the outside without being stupid-drunk and watching the world tilt. There are things to look forward to, after all. It's just hard to spot 'em until you're looking back. 

It's not all so bad, Dean has to admit, even in the confines of his own head. The best thing to come out of all this is him and Sammy patching their relationship. He hadn't been aware how much it eroded until he was trying to survey all the damage, only to have so much before him he didn't even know where to start. Sam's good, though—a good kid, a good brother, a good person. 

He was nervous at first, unsure if this was Dean just saying he was gonna be fine like all the other times. In his defense, it wasn't like Dad never randomly got on his  _ sober kicks,  _ sometimes promising to do better but never managing past a few weeks. When Dean stuck to it past a month, Sam asked him if he wanted to come over for dinner for the first time in a long, long time. Since then, they're like two peas in a pod, as close as they ever were, or closer. Sam's probably one of the biggest parts of his support system outside of Bobby, and Dean's so goddamn grateful. 

"That was some speech." 

Dean turns his head in vague surprise, blinking a little at the young woman moving over to stand next to him against the railing. She looks really young, probably a teenager. He's seen a few of them float in and out before, some going and some staying, some there outta rehab and some there because their parents dropped them off and drove away. Addiction doesn't care about age. 

The girl is wearing a leather jacket, hands stuffed in the pockets, her long blonde hair braided on one side of her head. She's got bruises under her eyes. They're bloodshot. A drinker—he'd know what an alcoholic's eyes looked like anywhere, after looking into his father's for years and then in the mirror. 

"Yeah, you could say that." 

"Dean Winchester, the alcoholic, huh?" the girl mutters as she squints out at the parking lot. 

"The man, the myth, the legend," Dean says dryly, gesturing to his own face. He raises his eyebrows at her. "And you are?" 

"Claire Novak, also an alcoholic," she says. 

"Didn't see you get up and give a speech." 

"Public speaking isn't really my thing." 

Dean snorts. "Yeah, tell me about it. Stick around long enough, and they'll bully you up there, trust me. Stubborn fuckers, the lot of 'em." 

"Good thing I'm not sticking around," Claire says, glancing at him. "Don't even know why I came." 

"We all got our reasons, I guess." Dean looks at her for a long moment, then looks away. "Aren't you a little too young to be drinking?" 

"You'd be surprised what a fake ID can do." 

"I really wouldn't." 

Claire heaves a sigh and reaches up to rub her temple with a grimace. "You know, you were one of the only ones that got up there and was honest. Everyone else talks about being sober like it's—like being clean off anything makes your life clean. But it doesn't. It all just fucking sucks." 

"Cut the rest of 'em some slack. They're not lying, not really. It's just that we all got different ways of doing things," Dean says. "Some people really do find sobriety to be the answer to all their problems. Find Jesus instead of a bottle, or find health instead of overdosing, shit like that. I'm just a pessimist." 

"Why'd you get sober, then?" Claire asks. 

Dean takes a deep breath, holds it, then blows it out. That's not the first time someone has asked him that. People wanna know. People have their guesses. Dean never really confirms anything. 

He's never told anyone, and he doesn't think he's ever felt the need to. It's a personal thing. Besides, what pushed him to get sober isn't what has kept him sober. He's come to learn that his motivations have changed. It's about him now, too—his health, his relationships with those he cares about, his own life and how content he's willing to make it. 

There's something about this girl, though. She looks a little lost, a little small, a little too much like she has to stand taller than she actually is. She's tired. She's alone, and directionless, and she's asking. There's a part of her that is waiting, just waiting, for something or someone to give her options. Hope.

"I broke a promise," Dean admits. 

Claire looks at him, curious. "What promise?" 

"There was someone that I—" Dean stalls out, then clears his throat. Okay, try again. "There was someone important to me that I used to promise a lot of things to. I broke 'em all, but there was one in particular that I had to make up for." 

There's a lot of promises Dean made to many people that he could feel the need to make up for. His promise to Sam that they'd never be like their dad is pretty high up there, but it's not the one that pushed him to get sober. From the first drink he ever had, he'd washed that promise down the drain, and there's no making up for that. 

No, the promise that got him off his ass and kicked him, stumbling and furious, into sobriety was the last vow Cas ever requested from him—one that he didn't even have the decency to understand the meaning of at the time. 

That day, that last day, Cas had stood up when Dean had headed for the door. He was going out. Crowley had called, asking if he wanted to come over and listen to him bitch about his mother, and Dean hadn't wanted to sit at home where he and Cas were still fighting, so he'd said yes. He didn't even look up as he scooped up his keys, and he'd been infuriated when Cas moved in front of the door, staring at him with defiance in his eyes and his jaw ticked. 

"I'm going out," Dean had said. 

When he'd tried to leave, Cas had slammed him up against the table next to the door where they dropped their mail off at. Bills and useless junk mail had gone sailing to the side as Cas pushed him roughly against it, snarling furious things in his mouth, aching for a fight. 

Dean had kissed him. He'd been so hot for it, gasping and shuddering and rushing to get out of his clothes, practically shaking apart with the sudden need to have Cas pin him down and fuck him stupid. Cas was never one to refuse him what he needed, and he didn't. Nothing about it was gentle, or tender, or in any way positive for their relationship, but it had been some very good sex. Dean could barely walk after, his legs shaking. 

It was when he was fumbling for the doorknob, still trying to escape their cycle of fighting and fucking, that Cas leaned into his space and caught his eye. They had looked at each other, gazing at each other, time and feelings seeming suspended, the full brunt of just how  _ much  _ they felt for each other seeming to explode and freeze in mid-motion, trapped in amber. In that moment, Dean had been terrified.

And Cas had said, very quietly, "Dean, promise me something before you go." 

"What?" Dean had replied. 

"Promise me," Cas whispered, "that you'll stop." 

Dean had thought he meant about the constant leaving, the coming home at random hours of the night, the pulling away, the failing to show up when he promised to, the fighting. All of that. Everything but what it really turned out to be. 

And so, Dean had grunted an acknowledgement and left without looking back, and the first thing he did was break his promise. 

Now, Dean has fulfilled it, made up for it, and it's far too late to be for Cas. It isn't for him anymore, not entirely. He may have been the reason, the one to grip him and snatch him from that shitty life, leaving a mark before he walked away, but Dean does it for himself now. He stops because he wants to, even if he only tried because Cas asked him to. 

He thinks, sometimes, that he was only able to because Cas asked. Then, other times, he thinks Cas asking doesn't serve as motivation at all. It only represents everything Dean lost, everything that Dean can no longer have. He'll never see Cas again. Cas is the one who got away, and Dean's the idiot who let him go, and that's all there is to it. 

"So you didn't do it for yourself?" Claire murmurs.

"To tell you the truth," Dean says, "not to start with. But, for as long as I was doing it for someone else, I didn't want to do it at all. I did it anyway, but I hated it. That's the thing. If you're going to do it, there comes a time when  _ you  _ are ready. Before then, before you're ready, it's not going to work. Making up for a broken promise is what pushed me to do it, but it wasn't until I was ready, until  _ I  _ wanted to, that I ever actually managed it." 

Claire looks at him, her lips pressing into a thin line, and then she swallows. Quietly, gruffly, she says, "I don't think I'm ready." 

"That's alright," Dean tells her. "Work on getting there. Like I said, we all do it differently." 

"When I am," Claire whispers, "would you—are you still gonna be around?" 

Dean's lips twitch. "Yeah, kid, I think so." 

"You could be a sponsor now, couldn't you? Because you have a year under your belt." 

"Technically, yes…" 

"Don't worry, I'm not asking right now. Just—maybe one day. I don't think I'd feel very supported by any of those other dumbasses in there." 

"Well, don't I feel special." 

"You're the kind of dumbass I think I could tolerate, at least," Claire mutters, her lips curling up. 

"Well," Dean says, "whenever you're ready." 

"Thanks," Claire replies, pushing away from the rail and hopping down the steps without looking back, hands shoved in her pockets, blonde hair swaying over the leather. She walks away, and Dean watches her go until she's out of sight. 

He won't see her again for over two years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if you know this, but Sponsors are supposed to be the same gender as the people they're sponsoring. I always wondered how that would go for Gay/Bi/Pan/etc people. I mean, I get what it's trying to go for, that rule—not forming an attachment to someone you're dependant on and letting it form into love, because it can get messy and just add more complications. So, for now, we're gonna remind ourselves that this is fiction and just enjoy the ride lol. 
> 
> I wonder if different places do it differently, as far as that rule. I know different programs that have AA and NA occupants do things differently depending on where you are and who's in charge etc. Again, if you know, you know. If you don't, well, expend belief for me, if you will.


	6. Stuck in the Middle (With You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are gonna like this one.

There are times that Dean forgets he was only a drunk for four years. It won't be long before he'll be sober for longer than he wasn't, not counting the largest portion of his life where he never drank anything at all. That time he spent drinking is something of a crapshoot—it's somewhere between vibrancy and haziness, seeming like a long period of his life or something that was blink-and-you-miss-it. 

The thing is, he's not reminded as much as he used to be. Now, he'll go days, weeks, maybe even months without thinking about what he was like when drunk. He'll go long stretches of time without wanting a drink, without even glancing at the liquor aisle, without wishing for a beer at the end of a long day. By now, he's learned that things really do get easier, and he can take it day-by-day. 

It's usually the big, life-altering changes that draw out the worst in someone. It's that knowledge that makes Dean keep a close eye on Bobby. 

He did, in fact, spend weeks modifying Bobby's house to the best of his ability. That doesn't mean that Bobby isn't in a wheelchair. He is. He just  _ is,  _ and that's something he has to adjust to. It's a pretty big life-change, so Dean has this irrational worry that if he leaves Bobby alone too long… 

But Bobby sees through his bullshit pretty quickly and kicks him the hell out. He gives him a long lecture on letting people come to terms with things on their own, knowing when to give people space and stop being a goddamn mother-hen. He says that  _ Dean's  _ gonna drive him to drink before being in a wheelchair ever will. He also admits, gruff and serious, that he's glad he's got Dean in his life. 

Dean maybe cried about that in his car, but you sure as shit can't prove it. 

All of this means that it's a little under a month before he actually spends a full day at home, and in the quiet of his own house, Dean finally allows himself to relax a little bit. Bobby is fine. He's still the same as always, except now he's got wheels to run over Dean's toes whenever Dean says something stupid. Actually, he's pretty sure Bobby is digging getting to ram his wheelchair into people's ankles. 

Everyone at the AA meetings—the long time people, at least—were more than happy to help Dean modify Bobby's house. Rufus helped, too, often riding along from work right to Bobby's to work on ramps together. So, they all got a lot done, but Dean still wants to add a ramp off the back porch, even though Bobby doesn't use it often. Doesn't matter. He should be able to if he ever  _ wants  _ to. 

He's gonna be doing that with Sam, mostly, and they've both decided to collectively ignore Bobby grumbling about it. They won't hear it when he fusses at them for doing things for him, but that's his fault for practically adopting them like they weren't gonna be willing to move mountains for him from that moment on. This is what happens when you do fatherly things for people who didn't really have a good father to want to do things  _ for.  _

Dean's home maybe three hours before he gets a text from Sam saying that he's bringing over the first haul of wood for the ramp from Lowe's. With that in mind, he gets up to make enough Lasagna for two, hoping he can talk Sam into staying over for dinner. 

When Sam arrives, he doesn't come alone. 

He just lets himself in, which isn't abnormal, so Dean doesn't stop sliding around his kitchen in his socks, belting along to the stereo. If he's listening to sad love songs by Taylor Swift, well, Sam ain't gonna judge him. Sam likes Celine Dion, so he doesn't have a fucking  _ right  _ to judge. First comment he makes, Dean's got the chorus to  _ My Heart Will Go On  _ memorized and ready to mortify. 

_"And I'll feel you forget me like I used to feel you breathe,"_ Dean croons, because he's kind of a trash person who doesn't know how to be anything other than a disaster sometimes. Yes, he's being ridiculous about Cas. Yes, he knows that this song is going to make his chest tight. Yes, he listens to it anyway and sings into the handle of his mop so he doesn't have to cave into the urge to curl up on the floor and cry. 

_ And I hope the sun shines and it's a beautiful day, and something reminds you you wish you had stayed,  _ Taylor sings, all while Dean does absolutely  _ marvelous  _ back-up, thank you very much. He turns at the sound of someone shuffling in the doorway, sliding across the linoleum. 

"You can plan for a change in the weather and time. But I never planned on you changing your mind…" Dean trails off on the last word, the mop held out towards the doorway where he assumed Sam was standing, hopefully about to pick up the chorus:  _ so I'll go...sit on the floor wearing your clothes. All that I know is I don't know...how to be something you miss. Never thought we'd have a last kiss. Never imagined we'd end like this. Your name, forever the name on my lips. Just like our last kiss _ . 

Except it's not Sam. 

It's Cas, just standing there, blinking at him. Dean blinks back, then feels so humiliated that he actually drops the mop and takes a step back. This is, hands down, one of the worst moments of his life. 

Cas clears his throat. "Hello, Dean." 

"Shit. Hey, Cas." Dean swallows. "I didn't—um, what are you doing here?" 

_ Forever the name on my lips. Forever the name on my lips. Just like our last… _ Taylor fades out, thankfully, and the last song on the album starts up—Long Live, fortunately less romantic but still very good. It dispels some of the tension, at least. 

"Sam and I were spending time together. Jess called it a 'friend date'," Cas informs him, air quotes and all. He tilts his head a little. "Sam stopped by to pick up wood and asked if I'd help him drop it off. It's for Bobby, isn't it? He mentioned you two were planning to work on a ramp for his back porch." 

"Yeah," Dean admits. "Uh, where's Sam now?" 

"He got inside, then immediately had to go back out to get his phone," Cas says. "He'll be inside in a moment. I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude." 

Dean shakes his head and rapidly says, "No, no, you're not intruding, man. You're welcome anytime, Cas. I just—I was surprised, is all. How're you?" 

"I'm well. Busy with work. And you?" 

"Good. Yeah. Doing good. Workin' and stuff. Helping Bobby out when he lets me." 

There's a long beat of awkward silence between them. They haven't seen each other since Dean slept over at his house, though it sort of feels like there's an afterimage of Cas always stamped onto his brain. He's always thinking about Cas, even when he's not. 

Dean wants to know if Cas is thinking of him, too. He wants to know if Cas dreams about him, if he sits down on his couch and remembers that Dean slept there, if he steps out on his stoop every morning and pauses for a second, lost in the sense memory of their shared hug. He wants to know if Cas still wants him the way Dean can't stop wanting him. These sleeping dogs are very active, and going their separate ways never seems to work out for either of them. They're bad at this. 

Sam—the best, unparalleled, literal embodiment of  _ deserves the entire fucking world _ —breaks the rising tension by appearing behind Cas in the doorway, head popping over his shoulder. He blinks at Dean, then offers a lopsided smile. 

"Whatcha cooking?" Sam asks. 

"Lasagna," Dean tells him. "Was hoping you'd stick around for dinner, actually." 

Sam bears his teeth in a grimace. "Can't. You can bring leftovers to Bobby's tomorrow, though. Actually, that's kinda what I was coming to talk to you about. I need a favor." 

"Sure," Dean says immediately, because he'll do whatever Sam needs, and besides, it's not like Sam is gonna ask for anything wild. 

"Well, Jess' car is in the shop, you know, and I gotta get to her office and pick her up, like, five minutes ago? Anyway, immediately after that I have to meet with a client, and that will probably last hours. It'll be kinda late then, and I just don't wanna drag Cas around with me everywhere, which would probably be a pain for him. Could you, um, take him home?" 

Sam no longer deserves the world. Sam is not the best. He's a terrible, traitorous cretin that Dean should have rolled up in a rug and kicked down a hill. How could he  _ do  _ this to Dean? After all that Dean has done for him—the four years of hell notwithstanding, of course—and he's gonna abandon a severely emotionally compromised Dean to Cas' company? Not only that, but  _ alone?  _

By the look on Cas' face, it's clear that he had no idea that Sam was going to betray him like this either, so at least they're not alone in this very horrific realization that Sam can't be trusted after all. He also looks like he's considering getting a new best friend, which is fair, considering everything. 

Still, Dean has a destructive personality, and he's absolutely weak when it comes to Cas in any way, so this isn't even a question.  _ Of course  _ Dean will take him home, and he'll goddamn thrive on their alone time together while he's at it, underhanded as it may be. God, he's such a shit. 

"Yeah, I've got the time. No biggie." 

"Oh, great," Sam chirps cheerfully, smiling smugly at Dean  _ and  _ Cas, which isn't at all subtle. He clears his throat and claps his hands, stepping back. "Well, I do gotta get on the road, but I'm glad we got this all sorted out. Hey, Dean, Cas hasn't had lunch. Why don't you feed him Lasagna? Anyway, bye!" 

With a jaunty little wave, Sam beats a hasty retreat, the door opening and closing. Dean resists the urge to chase after him and drag him back in by his ear to shove him into a corner and force him to think about what he's done. He's literally the worst. 

"You don't have to feed me Lasagna," Cas says very solemnly. 

"Shut up, I'm feeding you Lasagna," Dean mutters. He points to the table. "Sit. It'll be ready soon." 

Cas sits, looking very awkward. 

It continues to  _ be  _ awkward for the next five minutes, until Dean asks about his job, and then Cas starts talking, and then Dean starts talking, and then it's not even a little bit awkward at all. 

That's the thing about them. They can be going through some of the most insane things in their lives, and yet they can still find the space to bicker, and talk, and joke around with each other—well, Dean does most of the joking, while Cas is just unintentionally funny. This has never been the hard part for them. It's like when you meet someone, and everything in you just relaxes. 

Dean remembers realizing that love wasn't just the big moments, or the stifling need for someone else, or the heart-swelling actions in a relationship. It's also the days where nothing happens, where they settle in and watch Tombstone together, where Dean starts finding Cas in his clothes, where Dean says something and Cas says something back and there's nothing special about it. It's Cas quietly making Dean coffee without having to be asked, and Dean bundling Cas up in a blanket because he just so happens to catch him shivering out of the corner of his eye. It's idle conversations, and small smiles shared mindlessly, and gossiping about the neighbors, and being known as  _ Dean and Cas,  _ a unit, a couple, doing life together. 

Naturally, he'd shied away from that realization. It sounded like forever. It  _ felt  _ like forever, and that scared him because he hadn't thought that far ahead. He'd barely been able to stand the affection, and there was no way in hell he was ever going to be able to express his goddamn  _ feelings,  _ so he wasn't ready for forever. He hadn't thought forever was something someone really got to keep, just based on the facts of his life, and he turned out to be right. 

There's something to the saying  _ you don't know what you have until it's gone,  _ because Dean has never seen the freedom in forever until he lost it. His forever, his for-the-rest-of-our-lives, his companion for the unfurling memories that was sure to come—and Dean lost that. He let that go. 

But  _ this?  _ This, right here, right now… Sitting down with Cas and falling right back into the same patterns because they don't know  _ how  _ to do anything else, it feels like forever frozen in a second, hanging by a thread over them both, one they'll have to keep cutting down and walking away from over and over. It's authentic between them, something so natural that neither of them knows how to stop it. 

Dean separates the Lasagna layers for Cas, because he knows that's how Cas eats it, because Cas is a weird guy with picky eating habits. He slides the plate over, saying, "Dig in, sweetheart," with familiarity because he's said it hundreds of times before. He stretches out his legs under the table, and Cas' legs are already spread so Dean has the room, because he knows how Dean sits when he eats. 

They know each other. They know the nuances of each other, the little things that only people who have lived together would know, the moves telegraphed like a dance they've been doing for their whole lives when it was only for a couple of years. Cas knows Dean is ticklish behind his knees, knows that Dean winks at himself in mirrors, knows that Dean is scared of the dentist. Dean knows that Cas flinches at the sound of drills, knows that Cas is scared to name his plants in case they die, knows that Cas doesn't know how to tie a tie. 

They know every inch of each other. The sound of the other's breathing. The thump of a heart, the brush of fingers, the shape of a body. 

And still, they don't know nearly enough. Cas doesn't know every nightmare Dean has ever had. Dean doesn't know the full scope of Cas' religious upbringing. Dean thinks they could know everything, and still be eager to learn more, desperate for it. There are things—so many things—that forever promised to teach them. 

Dean doesn't know how to do this normally. He doesn't know how to scoop up their plates to take to the sink without obnoxiously ruffling Cas' hair as he goes by. He doesn't know how to look at Cas and force himself to look away. He doesn't know how he's supposed to refrain from touching when he never used to before, because that's all he wants to do now. He doesn't know how not to be in love, because he never figured that part out. 

He looks at Cas and thinks  _ I had you, I had you, I wish I still had you,  _ and he can't stop. He just can't.

Dean feels shame curdle in his gut. Cas doesn't even know. How could he? Dean never told him. He barely even  _ showed  _ him. From the very first moment he looked at Cas, he knew he wanted him, and he never knew how to say it. He didn't  _ have  _ to say it. Cas never even made him. 

That night they met, Cas had been in town for all of a day. His car had broken down, and he had no idea how to get home in the middle of the night, so he'd settled in like a fucking weirdo to stand under a streetlight and wait. Dean had offered to take him home, and he hadn't known how to ask for anything from Cas—not his number, not a date, nothing. 

Luckily, he hadn't needed to. He'd mentioned The Roadhouse, and a week later Cas just showed up one night that Dean was there. It was the second time Dean abandoned a drink for him, pushing away to go speak to the pretty man with the pretty eyes in the stupid trenchcoat. And Cas kept coming back, over and over, and Dean never had to ask for it. 

It wasn't long before they were falling into bed together. They kept doing it, and kept doing it, and then just didn't—stop. And, one day, Dean looked up to find that Cas had stayed at his house for a week straight. So, Dean pretended he didn't notice. 

He didn't correct anyone when they said that Cas was his boyfriend, and he didn't protest the first time Cas told someone that Dean was his. He fucked Cas' stupid the first time he told Dean he loved him.  _ Sweetheart  _ slipped out one time, then just never stopped. About a year in, Cas sat down the lease on his apartment where he would need to renew it, and Dean took the paper and ripped it in half, throwing it aside and letting Cas fuck him in the shredded remains. Them, their relationship, it was like it just sprang up and was known. It just was. 

Dean didn't  _ have  _ to reach out and touch Cas. He didn't have to call him beautiful, or hug him, or hold his hand. He didn't have to say  _ I love you.  _ Cas did all of that for him, did it for them both, and Dean was free to exist in his fear, and repression, and denial. He got the best of it both. The worst of it, too. 

Cas barely got anything. He got scraps. An occasional tender moment, a pet name, a man to make love to. He got Dean, but only just. 

It wasn't enough. It wasn't even _true,_ because Dean looked at Cas every single day and swallowed so many things down that he gagged on them. He wanted to say it all. He just couldn't. Cas deserved to hear it, and more, and Dean didn't do it. 

It took losing him for Dean to realize how badly he fucked up, to realize that he'd give anything to be able to say all the things he should have while Cas was his. He stands here right now, swallowing everything down, not because he can't say them, but because it's too late. He had his chance. He  _ had  _ Cas.

"Dean?" Cas murmurs, watching him from his chair, eyebrows furrowing. 

Dean clears his throat and shakes his head, leaving their plates in the sink. "I'm fine. Just, uh—god, Cas, do you remember your birthday? The first one I was around for, not—not the second one." 

The second one, Dean wasn't around for. He'd gone out and gotten very drunk. Sam had put together a small party at his house, and Dean didn't even show up. But the first…  _ The first…  _

"I remember," Cas says softly, turning slightly to look at the table, a small smile quirking his lips. It's an unconscious thing, Dean knows, because his eyes are foggy as he's lost in the memory. "We were only together for six months at the time. You cooked a whole meal of all my favorite foods, and you let me pick every movie we watched without complaint. You were very—affectionate that day." 

"Yeah," Dean mumbles, looking down at the floor. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Yeah." 

Cas' chair scrapes against the floor, and when Dean opens his eyes, he's standing up and staring at him. He looks uncertain. "Is there a reason you're thinking about my birthday?" 

"No, I just—" Dean coughs and waves a hand, averting his eyes. "It's coming up in a couple of months. What do you want this year?" 

"I—" Cas stalls out, his mouth still hanging open. He just looks at Dean until they're just looking at each other, so many unsaid things cascading between them. He closes his mouth, swallows, then exhales slowly. "You don't have to give me anything this year, Dean. I have everything I need already." 

Dean feels that like claws on the inside of his chest. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, gripping Baby's keys in his right one, letting them dig into his palm. His mouth is very dry. "Yeah? You do?" 

"I do," Cas confirms, his voice steady. "I have my job, friends, a home. I'm...home." 

"Right," Dean rasps, "that's—that's really good, Cas. I'm glad. I swear to god I'm happy for you, man." 

"Thank you," Cas whispers, holding his gaze. 

"We should—" Dean tugs the keys out his pocket, turning towards the door, his breath shuddering out of him. "Come on, I'll take you home." 

Cas clears his throat from behind him. "Okay." 

Dean wavers in place, taking an unsteady step forward, his heart racing in his throat. His whole body feels warm and achy from the tension that scrabbles for purchase in his every muscle. It's a thread of restraint that's been yanked too thin, fraying under even more pressure. 

_ I have everything I need already,  _ Cas had said. But that's the thing, isn't it? Need. Cas is pretty big on needs. He always was. Dean never really understood why Cas insisted on having perishable foods in the house.  _ Just in case,  _ he would say.  _ Wouldn't want to go hungry if something happened.  _ He was pragmatic in absolutely everything, all facets of his life taken up by everything he needed—clothes were always practical, money was always treated like it could all disappear in a second, even his time was planned with extra care. It's always about needs with him. 

He'd told Dean once that he never succumbed to his wants until he met Dean, that the first thing he ever allowed himself to have that wasn't necessary to his survival  _ was  _ Dean.  _ I wanted you more than I've ever needed anything else,  _ he'd said. 

Dean pivots on the spot, and Cas is right there, waiting to leave. He blinks rapidly as Dean whirls around on him, and then his breath hitches when Dean starts moving forward. Dean drops his keys carelessly to the floor, stumbling forward as Cas stumbles back, eventually coming to a stuttering halt against the counter. Dean grips the edge of it on either side of Cas, boxing him and crowding closer, eyes fluttering shut. 

"The thing is," Dean croaks, his voice rough and ruined, leaning in until he can feel the fast rise and fall of Cas' chest against his own. 

"Dean," Cas says, a warning. 

Dean shakes his head. "The thing  _ is,  _ Cas, what about the—what about all the things you want? What about that, huh? I asked you what you  _ wanted,  _ not what you needed. What  _ do  _ you want?" 

"I don't—" Cas makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. Frustration. His hand lands on Dean's arm, fingers digging in, and Dean opens his eyes to look at it. "Dean, we agreed there was no point." 

"No, you said there was no point, and I respected that. I  _ still  _ respect that," Dean clarifies. He drags his hands from the counter, settling them against Cas' hips. "I'm just—I just…" 

"There's no  _ point,"  _ Cas snaps, harsh and blunt. 

"Is there?" Dean leans in, ducking his head to catch his gaze, and they both freeze the moment they're staring at each other. Unable to look away. Stuck and suspended there. Dean swallows. "Why do you want to know what got me sober, Cas? More than just being curious, it's important to you. Why?" 

Cas stares at him for a long beat, then he shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Whatever your reasons, it's a good thing. I'm happy for you." 

"Oh, so  _ now  _ it doesn't matter?" Dean mutters, raising his eyebrows. "You don't want me to tell you? No one knows, not really." 

"It doesn't—" Cas closes his eyes, jaw clenching, and he looks away. His nostrils flare. "Do you even remember what I asked of you, Dean?" 

Dean huffs a sardonic laugh. "Sweetheart, you think I could forget that? All you asked of me was...to stop. And I couldn't even do that." 

"But you did," Cas whispers, eyes snapping open. He stares out at Dean's kitchen, head turned away, throat working. "The moment I was gone…" 

"It's a common misconception," Dean murmurs, "to blame yourself for not being enough to fix someone in this situation. Families and spouses do it all the time. You ain't the first, or the last. They see these broken, fucked up people, and they don't understand why they can't choose them over substance, but it ain't always that simple. It's not about what you love more, not with this illness."

Cas flicks his gaze towards him, then quickly looks away. His eyes are starting to shine. "It's a harrowing thing to know—to have to actively face that you love someone more than they will ever love you. It's only more damning to realize that loving them isn't enough." 

"No, Cas, no, no, no," Dean chants in a rush, his chest swelling as he sucks in a sharp breath. "Don't do that to yourself. Just don't. I was fucked up long before you ever met me. I'm  _ still  _ fucked up. Being sober doesn't change that, okay? You could have loved me to pieces, but that wasn't gonna help. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking  _ sorry,  _ but you loving me through it would have never helped me stop." 

"Was I bad for you?" Cas whispers, the sheen over his eyes growing thicker, heavier. 

Dean makes a small, pained sound. "No, you were never bad for me. It was never your  _ fault.  _ There was nothing you could have done, not until I was ready, and I put you through enough hell as it was. I didn't even know that I needed to change until everything went wrong. You shouldn't have had me at my worst. Sweetheart, you deserved me at my best." 

"I just wanted—" Cas chokes on that, his nails digging into Dean's arm, head ducking. "I just needed to know that I wasn't—that I didn't make it worse. If you got better without me—if your life was so much better  _ without me—"  _

"Cas.  _ Cas,  _ listen to me." Dean darts his hands up to grab Cas' face, forcing him to look up, the tears still in his eyes, determined not to fall. Dean licks his lips, staring at him. "This is gonna sound insensitive as hell, but it wasn't about you. It was  _ never  _ about you. The drinking? That was me. That was  _ all  _ me, and my fucked up shit, okay? You were doing your best to deal with it, but it wasn't  _ yours  _ to deal with. It was mine. It took some time after you left. I didn't just magically get better once you were gone. As much as you wanted to help me, as much as  _ anyone  _ wanted to help me, it came down to me and what I was gonna do. It wasn't about you, okay?  _ Okay?"  _

Cas blinks at him, watery blue eyes swirling a little from the tears that cling to his eyelashes. Some fall, finally, and Dean quickly swipes them away. He's never seen Cas cry. It's pretty. It's unbearable. 

"Okay." Cas releases a quiet sigh, nodding a little. He blinks, then again, then rapidly all at once. Dean clears the tears for him, and he breathes for a long second. Again, he says, "Okay." 

"You really blamed yourself?" Dean asks softly. 

"It was easier than blaming you," Cas says. 

Dean huffs a soft laugh. "Well, any way you slice it, Cas, it was  _ me  _ doing what I was doing. You can blame me, man. Our relationship fell to shit because of me. You get to be angry about that." 

"I wasn't making the best choices at the time either, if you recall," Cas murmurs. "There were so many different things I wished I had done, but it was already too late to do them." 

"Story of my life," Dean says wryly. He brushes his thumbs over Cas' cheeks again, even though they're dry now. He likes the feel of them. "When you came back, you were expecting to find me the same way I was when you left." 

Cas nods. "Yes." 

"I know you didn't come back for me," Dean starts, taking a deep breath, "but I—" 

"Yes, I did," Cas interrupts, his words a harsh croak. He blinks, then swallows. "Of course I did. This is only my home because you made it so. If you were anywhere else, that is where I would want to be. I got here and found that you were better without me, and I—Dean, I was so hurt. I was so  _ frustrated  _ that me being here was for someone who bloomed while I was away. But you were always—it was foolish of me to lie to you, and to myself. When asked where I would go, you were the first thought I had." 

Dean stares at him, heart thumping unevenly in his chest. "You—so, you actually—" 

"I didn't know what I wanted," Cas says, looking away. "I still—well, I knew this was only my home because of you. It was through you that I found a place and people that became family. I didn't know what I would find when I returned, and I tried to convince myself that this was for me and only me. And, in some ways, it was. I have a life here. I just couldn't figure out...you, and Gabriel suggested that I deny everything until I worked it out. I realize now that this was bad advice. I still haven't worked out much of anything. I was also guilty. I saw that you were better without me, and I didn't wish to make things worse by—allowing anything." 

"Cas," Dean whispers, swaying closer, "you asked me to stop, and I was barely out the door before I was breaking that promise. You knew who I was, what I was, and you loved me unconditionally. The only damn thing I ever did right by you was not beg you to stay. But you were gone, and I was—" 

"You were what?" Cas asks softly. 

Dean looks at Cas a little helplessly. "I was drunk for a week straight. Lost my job. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Sam was pissed at me, convinced I ran you off, and I didn't have anyone. I tried to drive to New York and made it maybe five minutes before Jody picked me up and put me in the drunk tank. I looked around at the rest of 'em and thought, that's not me, that's my dad. Except it was. I was just like them. I'd pissed my life away, lost Sammy, and I lost you, and it was all because I couldn't keep that promise. So, I started trying to. It was too late, but I still did it." 

"You got sober for  _ me?" _ Cas asks, eyebrows furrowing, confused. 

"I  _ decided  _ to get sober for you," Dean corrects weakly. "That's an important distinction. If I got sober for you, man, and not for me, I wouldn't be sober. I'm sober 'cause I wanna be, for more than just because I wanted to be better for you. I want to be better for  _ me,  _ too." 

Cas stares at him for a long moment, then he blinks and releases a slow breath. "I'm proud of you, Dean. You should be as well. I think, perhaps, it was selfish of me to base your willingness to get sober on how much I was worth to you. I'm sorry." 

"S'okay," Dean mumbles. "There's no right way to handle this shit. It'd probably help if we—if we—" He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. "Good god, I can't believe I'm saying this. Bobby, what the hell have you done to me? Um, just...I think it would be  _ better  _ for us if we...talked about things more. Unless you don't want to—have anything to do with me, and that's...fair." 

"I don't know what I want," Cas says, though his gaze drops to Dean's lips, lingering there. 

Dean clears his throat. "Kinda think you do, Cas." 

"Is it even a good idea?" Cas asks, wary but very fixated nonetheless. 

"Sweetheart, there's a huge difference in craving you and craving a drink." Dean ducks his head to catch his gaze again, raising his eyebrows. "Trust me, I'd know. I've been dealing with it for as long as I've known you, the last three years included." 

Cas blinks at him. "Even when I was—" 

"Yeah," Dean admits. He swipes at Cas' cheeks again, licking his lips. "You have no fucking idea. But shit, why  _ would  _ you? I never—fuck, Cas, I never told you. I never even—" 

"It's okay, Dean," Cas says softly. 

Dean shakes his head. "No, it's not. It's  _ not.  _ I loved you every single second we were together, and you didn't even know. I love every single goddamn thing about you, right now. And I—I miss you. A lot. All the time."

Cas stares at him, his eyes a little wide, lips parted. He looks stunned. He looks like he's just been slapped, and oh  _ god,  _ Dean did him so wrong. Dean should be worshipping the ground he walks on, Jesus fucking Christ. He's so stupid. 

Dean's heart thumps wildly in his chest. He struggles not to surge forward immediately and take what isn't his to have. This doesn't change anything, not yet, not until they've agreed it has. They've done enough not talking about things. Dean wants to speak now. 

"I would treat you so good, Cas," Dean says, his voice low and gruff and serious. He's never been more serious in his life. "I didn't before, but I swear to you I would now, if you'd let me. I'm talking the whole nine yards. I'd take you on dates, I'd fucking show you off to the whole world, I'd  _ pamper  _ you, man. Anything you want, everything I should have done before. And I ain't perfect. I'm just not. I'm a goddamn mess, but I'll love you like I should have, like I did but was just too stupid to actually show. Let me. Sweetheart, let me." 

Cas doesn't respond for a long moment, frozen in place, and then he says, "Are you asking?" 

"Begging," Dean whispers. "Stay. I want you to stay, Cas, and I want to have you again.  _ If  _ that's what you want, you can have it. I'm yours. It's not going to make anything worse. I  _ promise."  _

For a long, tense moment, there's no reaction. It's like Cas just—stops. His expression goes slack. He stands there like a block, stiff and unmoving. Only his eyes show anything, and they're full of so much that Dean can't even interpret it. 

And then, Cas closes the space between them so fast that Dean barely has time to blink. He doesn't even get to suck in a breath before Cas' mouth is on his, and then he's just making a small sound and sinking into it, because  _ yes, finally, yes, yes, yes.  _

Cas' kisses are like a goddamn furnace, his mouth hot, his presence blazing bright, everything so intense that Dean's consumed in seconds. He shudders in relief, falling into old habits and letting Cas lick into his mouth like he never stopped. They know how to do this. They know this like they know breathing, an automatic thing that comes instinctively, mouths slotting together, everything falling apart perfectly. They melt.

Dean's gonna lose his goddamn mind. He feels like he's been waiting for this for three goddamn years, suspended on tenterhooks that kept him wrenched at all angles, aching to be plucked down and smoothed out. Cas works the kinks out with ease, like the conductor of Dean's needs, guiding him through. Right now, Dean's the one who should be embarrassed. It's him that's clawing at Cas to drag him closer. It's him making these small, pathetic whimpers that Cas rolls around on his tongue, tasting them. It's him that's on the verge of fucking crying because this is all he's wanted for so  _ long.  _

He is really being quite humiliating, honestly. When Cas swivels them to press  _ him _ up against the counter, pinning him to it, Dean moans long and loud, a little indecent like they're in a porno, except he's just that sincerely into this right now. Every time Cas pulls away to let them get some air, Dean gasps like a fucking idiot and makes a despaired, desperate noise before yanking Cas back in. He doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want to lose it again. He doesn't want to let it go. He keeps asking for the kiss, for  _ Cas,  _ to come back over and over.  _ Please stay, please never leave,  _ he tries to convey, and Cas seems to understand. 

Eventually, however, they really do need to breathe because they're only human and getting a little lightheaded. Cas is a goddamn angel, though, because he doesn't take his lips off of Dean immediately. Instead, he kisses and nips down the length of his jaw, worrying at the underside of it, breathing hard and sucking on his neck. Dean's eyes flutter shut. He tips his head back, giving more access, his ability to think absolutely blown to shit. 

It's the brief, passing thought that confirmation is still important that gets him to open his mouth and say, "Okay, yes, okay. But, um, Cas, words. You gotta use your words. This is—this seems like we're on the same page, but I need a yes." 

"Yes," Cas rumbles against his pulse. "This is a yes. Same page. Letting you. Yes, Dean." 

"Oh, thank god," Dean chokes out, winding his fingers up into Cas' hair. "No separate ways?" 

"I'm tired of that." 

"And the sleeping dogs?" 

"They're awake," Cas murmurs in his ear, chapped lips brushing along the sensitive cartilage. 

"Fuck, yes," Dean hisses. His breath stutters out of him as Cas hums low and gravelly in his throat, going back to feasting on Dean's neck. He always had a thing about marking him up. "Right, this is awesome, but—but we should take it slow, right? Cas, we should take it slow, shouldn't we? Because I wanna do this right, and—and second chances don't swing around every goddamn day. So, I wanna treat you real nice. Slow. Like you deserved." 

"We can start taking it slow tomorrow," Cas says, hands skating down Dean's sides to reach down and grab his ass, pulling him in to rock their hips together, a rough drag of jeans and arousal. 

Dean's jaw positively unhinges. "Jesus  _ Christ,  _ yes, okay," he agrees, voice cracking. "Tomorrow. We start tomorrow. M'gonna take you on a date." 

"That's nice," Cas tells him, voice rough. "Right now, I'm taking you to bed." 

"Please," Dean wheezes, his knees nearly buckling. Fucking  _ fuck,  _ he's about to shake apart from how badly he wants this. 

Cas hums in approval and pulls back enough to whirl them both around. He marches Dean back towards the door, distracted, hands on his hips. They go stumbling into things, knocking shit off counters, tripping into doorways. Kissing again, Dean moans into Cas' mouth every single time, practically burning up from the inside out. 

Somehow, they eventually make it to Dean's bedroom door, and they get stuck there for a few minutes. Cas slams him up against it, kissing him intensely, hot and heady. Dean scrambles for the doorknob, fumbling, so goddamn wrapped up in Cas that he's basically just pawing at the door and whimpering like a fucking fool. Cas is the one who has to reach out and let them fall in, steering them right for the bed, where they can get lost in one another again. The best rediscovery of all time. 

Dean's not at all surprised how far gone he is. It's always been this way between them, so sucked into each other that it's hard to remember the world exists outside of them. Of course this is how it is. 

It's Cas. It's always been Cas. 

No one else. 

* * *

_ One year ago…  _

"Okay, what about her?" 

Dean once again tilts his head back and releases a small sigh, closing his eyes. His head is starting to throb. This might be more demeaning than the horrifying ordeal of drying himself out. It's been two years since  _ that  _ occurred, but he remembers it in graphic and viscerally painful detail. 

The shakes, the sweating, the actual pain of it. Teeth clacking, body wracking with tremors, curling up in a tight ball and wishing for everything to stop. He'd bargained for another drink. He'd vomited until he was just dry-heaving, having nothing else to give. His body had rejected anything but what it actually wanted, what it needed. He was both too cold and too hot, his brain boiling and bobbing in ice. He'd called out for his dad, had dreams that might have been hallucinations, crying and apologizing and so delirious that it wasn't even funny. Everything hurt. 

Going dry and getting it out of his system had been a long and painful process, and possibly one of the hardest things he's ever had to suffer through. 

This is a close second. 

"Not interested, Sammy," Dean mumbles. 

"Come on, she was very pretty," Sam insists, most definitely frowning, even though Dean isn't looking. 

Sure enough, when he checks, Sam is frowning. Dean sighs. "She was, yeah, but I'm just not—feeling it, I guess. Not the one for me, I can tell." 

"That's what you said about all the rest," Sam mutters. His eyebrows crumble together, and he idly toys with his beer bottle. He's only just started drinking around Dean again, a hesitant thing he does now, a little unsure about it no matter how much Dean assures him that it's fine. "Okay, what about  _ him?  _ He's...huh. Kinda hot, actually." 

Dean glances over to where Sam is nodding his head, catching sight of the guy he's pointing out. And yeah, kinda hot does him justice. Dark skin, dark eyes, cropped afro, a warm smile. Oh, the cowboy boots are a nice touch. Dean looks away. 

"Got something you want to tell me, Sam?" Dean teases with a snort. 

"Dude, I have  _ eyes,"  _ Sam says, rolling them to prove it. "So? Whaddya think?" 

"I think…" Dean purses his lips and hums, then he rolls his shoulders and sighs again. "Not interested."

Sam's face dips into a scowl. "Not interested. Not feeling it. Not the one for you. Not the right vibes. Dean, what is  _ with  _ you, man? Come on, since when do you turn down the chance to have a good roll around in the hay with someone?" 

"Uh, I don't know, the last two years?" Dean says, tone dirt-dry. He arches an eyebrow pointedly. 

"That was heavily recommended for your journey into sobriety." Sam takes a swig of his beer, then lets it hit the table with a thunk. "Bobby came over, you know. Said you two talked about dating recently, or even just—sex.  _ He  _ said he thinks you're good for it, except you apparently don't. Are you seriously not jumping at the chance to get back on the horse?" 

Dean narrows his eyes at him. "You and Bobby really need to get hobbies. Stop talking about me."

"You're not  _ all  _ we talk about, but you do happen to come up from time-to-time. Are we, or are we not, the main branches of your support system? Hm? Is it so wrong to care about your well-being?" 

"My well-being isn't suffering because I'm not jumping on the first dick that walks by, or smothering my face in the next pair of boobs that jiggle past me. I think I'm good, man." 

"You're so freaking gross, dude," Sam says, grimacing. "You know what  _ I  _ think?" 

"That I'm so freaking gross?" 

"I'm serious, Dean." 

"When aren't you, Sammy, when aren't you?" Dean heaves a sigh and puts his chin on his fist, raising his eyebrows and giving Sam his undivided attention. "Alright, have at it. I'm sure you got some real interesting opinions about me knocking around in that head of yours. Give it your best shot." 

"I think you're scared," Sam tells him, very seriously.

Dean snorts. "Dude, I haven't been scared of dicks since I was twenty-two. You kinda stop once you've had enough of 'em in your mouth." 

_ "Dude."  _ Sam groans and scrubs his hand over his face, shaking his head. "This isn't about the second coming of your sexuality crisis, Dean. Those were dark days, and I think you're mostly outta the woods—at least when it comes to the sex part. You probably need to work on the romance side of things, if I'm being honest. You  _ do  _ know it's okay to treat men with the same affection that you would a woman, right? Please tell me you've figured that part out by now, or I swear to god I will make a powerpoint.  _ Another  _ one." 

Dean rears back instinctively, cringing. The first powerpoint often has a significant role in his nightmares. There had been a lot of pictures from  _ The Road to El Dorado.  _ Very much 'Both. Both. Both. Both is good' as an overall theme. Sam had a slide dedicated to why their dad failed them in this way as well, not an outright homophobe but definitely a perpetrator of what Sam had insisted was toxic masculinity. He'd taken gender studies in college. Dean had gotten a very long  _ 'it is okay to be gay, if you're bi don't ask why, also respect women'  _ talk, and then he'd gone home and got thoroughly drunk. 

Nonetheless, Dean had ended up with a man in the back of Baby about a month later, so it  _ must  _ have gotten through to him somehow. He was just curious, that's all. For a long time after that, he kept that shit hidden and tucked away, until he'd accidentally agreed that he'd fuck some famous dude when Jess pointed out that she would. 

It was the most mortifying, "Oh, me too," of his goddamn life, mostly because he was with all his and his brother's friends. It was technically his coming out, he supposes, but no one has ever said anything and just kept it moving. That probably had something to do with Charlie firmly declaring that she would  _ not  _ fuck the famous guy, given the chance, for obvious reasons. After that, Dean was slightly more open, and no one batted an eye. 

But Sam is on to something about Dean struggling with showing affection to men. His heart pangs just thinking about it. He'd dated Cas for two years and never once kissed him in public. Jesus Christ. 

Still. He knows better now. What he wouldn't  _ give  _ to go back and—

Nope. He's not dwelling on it. Fuck that noise. He really,  _ really  _ needs to stop thinking about Cas. Jesus Christ, it's somehow gotten  _ worse  _ with more time, especially since his libido has returned. He hasn't seen him in two years, and Dean still aches at the thought of him. He's fucking hopeless. 

"Thanks, Sammy, but there's no need for another powerpoint," Dean says quickly. "I've given my repression a firm kick in the ass, thank you." 

Sam nods, satisfied. "Well, good. Still, I do think you're scared. Bobby says that's common. Says that sometimes people are scared to shake their lives up and kinda invite a chance of change that could go south. Like you don't trust yourself, or something." 

"So, what, because I'm not itchin' to get between the sheets with somebody, I don't trust myself?" 

"Well. Do you?" 

"I trust myself," Dean mutters, because he does. He went through the roughest heartbreak he's ever experienced while  _ getting  _ sober. He's confident he could handle a hook-up, or even a new partner, even if it went sideways. Nothing hurts like Cas does, and he just instinctively knows nothing ever will. 

"Right." Sam looks at him for a long moment, considering, then he hums and scans the room again. "Alright, what about her?" 

"Sam," Dean mumbles, "I'm tryna tell you, man, I'm just not  _ interested,  _ okay?" 

"Why? Can I ask why? Look, I'm not trying to be pushy. I just want you to be happy. Get back out there, ya know? Is this—is it just because you're in a good spot? If it isn't broke, don't fix it?" 

"I mean, I  _ am  _ in a good spot. Got a damn good job. Great friends, good family, nice house. I'm comfortable. I'm really,  _ really  _ doing good." 

"No, I know," Sam says, his face softening. "And I'm glad. I really am. I just—I want to be supportive, I guess. I don't know. I just know you, man. You don't like being alone, and I go home at the end of the day. Maybe I just want you to have everything." 

Dean smiles weakly. "I get it. I know you're not trying to come off as a dick. I understand what you're trying to do, Sammy, and thank you. Real nice of you, seriously, but it ain't happening." 

"Maybe you just haven't met the right one yet," Sam suggests. "We could go somewhere else." 

"Sam," Dean says softly, "it doesn't matter where we go. No one is going to—I don't want  _ them." _

Sam's gaze snaps to him, shrewd and searching. After a beat, his expression clears and falls slack, eyes widening a little. Then, a breath, in and out really quick. His face softens. "Cas?" 

"Cas," Dean agrees, swallowing and looking down at the table, lips pressed into a thin line. 

"Still?" Sam asks gently. 

Dean huffs a harsh laugh, putting his elbows on the table and running both hands through his hair, closing his eyes. "He was  _ it,  _ man. He was—" 

"Dean," Sam mumbles. 

"He was  _ everything,  _ and I just—" Dean picks his head up and opens his eyes, waving his hand weakly. "So, yeah, I'm really not interested. I mean, I could force it, but it'd just make it worse, I think. They're not him. No one is ever gonna be him." 

Sam watches him for a long moment, pursing his lips and pushing them from side-to-side. His eyes are very sad. Finally, he says, "Have you given any thought to, um, reaching out to him?"

"It's been two years, Sam." 

"Yeah, but—come  _ on,  _ man, you two were… I mean, he loved you to hell and back, Dean. You never settled for anyone but him. He was your longest relationship, and if you still—if you miss him—" 

"It's a little more than that," Dean croaks, holding Sam's gaze. He's never said this out loud before, but he may as well now. It's gonna hurt on the outside as much as it does thrashing around on the inside. "I loved him, Sam. I still do." 

"Oh," Sam murmurs, eyes widening a little. He blinks rapidly. "Damn, you really did give your repression a kick in the ass." 

Dean cracks a smile. "Told ya." 

"Well." Sam inhales, then clicks his tongue, then slams his hand down on the table. "There's nothing else for it, man. You gotta go to New York. Get in your car and go. Right now. You gotta tell him." 

"Sam," Dean says, rolling his eyes, "this isn't a goddamn chick flick, okay? I'm not doing that." 

Sam scowls. "Why the hell not?" 

"It's been  _ two years."  _

"Yeah, and? You love him! That's  _ huge,  _ Dean. Hire a flash mob and confess your love with sky-writing, or something. Wear a suit. Bring flowers. Go all out, and just—shit, go for it, ya know?" 

"I think I'd rather be heartbroken  _ without  _ the fully expressed rejection, actually, but thanks," Dean says, deadpan, his expression flat. 

"You think Cas would reject you?  _ Cas.  _ The guy who made me sit down and suffer through a solid  _ two hours  _ of what basically was the equivalent of nonstop poetry about your  _ freckles?  _ That guy?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Dean's lips curl up fondly against his will. "Did he actually do that?" 

"Yes. It was torture, but he looked so happy about it that I didn't have the heart to stop him." 

"I used to wake up to him tracing my freckles, you know. For a guy with such strong hands, his touch was always really gentle. I mean, his fingers were long, ya know? Kinda nimble, but his hands were broad, too. Warm, usually. I used to stare at his hands a lot. His knuckles were so  _ prominent,  _ Sam, and I remember he had these—" 

"Dean," Sam cuts in, voice strained, "that wasn't an invitation to start poetry about Cas'  _ hands.  _ I get it. You're gone on him. Point made." 

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, his face flashing with heat. Shit. It's two years too late to still have it this goddamn bad. Hopeless and helpless. 

Sam sighs and leans forward. "So, what are you going to do? Just stay alone for the rest of your life? If you're not going to put yourself back out there again, why  _ not  _ go for it with Cas? Seriously, what's stopping you? What do you have to lose?" 

"Is there something wrong with being alone?" 

"No, not at all. No one needs anyone else to complete them. Sex isn't everything. Relationships aren't everything.  _ But,  _ like I said,  _ you  _ don't want to be alone. Dean, I've never heard you say you love anyone. You just...don't say that. And you freaking  _ love  _ him, man! He's it for you! He's the one! Go get him. Why not? Why  _ shouldn't  _ you?" 

"I can't," Dean whispers. "Because, here's the thing, I love him enough to let him go. He deserves—fuck, Sammy, he deserves so much better than me. You have no idea the shit I put him through." 

"I was there for a lot of it." Sam's face goes pinched, the skin around his eyes strained. 

"Not towards the end. Not—" Dean swallows and averts his eyes. "I think the best thing I ever did for him was—was let him go. I'm not fucking that up. Who knows what kinda life he has now? Who he knows, how he spends his time, whether he's happy or not. He could be in a relationship. I could make a mess of things more than I already did." 

"You're sober, Dean," Sam says, like a reminder. 

Dean nods. "Yeah, but that don't automatically fix all my fuck-ups. Just 'cause I got a broom and swept up the glass don't mean the plate still ain't broken. I shattered it, Sammy. That's all there is to it." 

"What if he still felt the same? What if he wanted to be with you the same way you want to be with him?" 

"Then he's a goddamn idiot." 

"Well, he's always been that," Sam mutters, lips curling up fondly. "The best kinda idiot, though. A bit like you. You two were always idiots about each other, so who says that's changed? Besides, you can't look at it that way. You're a good man, Dean." 

"If he still felt the same, don't you think he would have come back?" Dean asks. 

Sam fixes him with a serious look. "You  _ know  _ how Cas is. He's a runner." 

"I know." Dean gestures to himself. "And who do you think he was running from?" He sighs and tries on a half-smile. It feels like it doesn't quite fit right on his face. "I'm gonna be alright, Sam. You don't have to worry about it, okay? He's not coming back. He's just not, and—and maybe that's for the best. Besides, me and him… We got a lot of shit, man. I trust myself, I really do, but I'm not gonna lie. I'd need more time to be stable enough to see him. I know my limits, and Cas? He pushes every single one of 'em. Love's complicated, ya know?" 

"Yeah, Dean, I know," Sam says softly. He sighs softly and nods, reaching out to clap him on the shoulder, squeezing it. "Well, you do what's best for you. I respect it. I'll even stop trying to get you to hook up with random people. Scout's honor." 

"You were never a scout." 

"Okay. Math nerd's honor." 

"There ya go." Dean's smile grows a little, and this time, it feels like it fits better. "And, uh, thanks." 

"For what it's worth," Sam murmurs, "I'm really freaking proud of you, Dean." 

Dean's chest goes warm. "Ditto, bitch." 

"Jerk." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CO 👏 MUN 👏 I 👏 CA 👏 TION 👏 
> 
> We have lift-off, folks.


	7. The Man Who Would Be King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tone shift!!! We've unlocked a secret POV. Ha, this should be fun. 
> 
> This is where the religion tag comes in, by the way. Cas has some thinky-thoughts and comments surrounding religion/God, and it comes into play in this chapter. Otherwise, this chapter is mostly fun! A slight warning for someone NEARLY relapsing (not Dean).

Castiel remembers praying. 

Prayer was commonplace in his childhood home. One before every meal, one before bed every night, multiple when at church. When he was very young, it was a game to him—like talking to a friend who never actually replied. God was his imaginary friend growing up, though his mother likely wouldn't appreciate him pointing this out. 

The very first time he ever prayed to God as something other than a friend, as the omnipotent being that he is rumored to be, Castiel was thirteen years old. He remembers kneeling by his bed, addressing God and asking him if he'd make Castiel stop being so different from everyone else. And, perhaps, he could grant Castiel a friend. 

Sticking to a theme, God never replied. 

By the time Castiel was sixteen, he was furious with God. At that age, he knew what his preferences were, and no amount of dating sweet Daphne from choir practice, or even having ill-advised escapades with April in the confessional, would or could ever change it. He was doomed to Hell, and he didn't even get a choice in the matter. 

When Castiel was eighteen, he prayed for the last time in a long time when he cursed God and demanded that his parents be struck down instead of him. He had only been half-sarcastic. That was the night he packed what little he had and left home. For a long time, he lived in shelters, suffering with little food, sleeping in the back of alleys and learning to live in a world he didn't know how to fit into. 

He'd never seen a movie that wasn't about Jesus Christ, or God himself, of the glorification of the miracles in Christianity. He'd never had money he wasn't immediately putting in an offering at church. He'd never heard a pop song, or had any pork, or went to school—he was homeschooled by his mother, who added questions on his quizzes making him quote random bible verses. He had no real world experience, and it was like he was from an entirely different planet from everyone else. 

Because of these things, he was awkward. He was weird. He didn't understand seemingly normal things. Everything was so  _ new,  _ and so interesting, and very terrifying in a way he couldn't make sense of. It took him a long time to find his footing in the world, and even then, nowhere felt like home. 

Until Dean. 

Ah, Dean Winchester. Castiel hadn't stood a chance. The moment he laid eyes on Dean, he was gone. Lost. Found. Everything and nothing. Castiel fell in love at first sight. He'd looked at Dean and knew instantly he never wanted to look away. 

The first time Castiel prayed after stopping at eighteen, he was on a plane to New York. He'd closed his eyes, and he'd begged God to make sure Dean would be okay. He didn't know if God was even real—and still does not—but if there was a chance that he  _ was,  _ Castiel pleaded with him to please, please,  _ please let Dean be okay.  _

From the moment he left to the moment he returned three years later, Castiel prayed every night. Not for himself. Never for himself. For Dean. 

It was, perhaps, a bit misguided of him. Dean is okay. He is better than okay, now, and Castiel realizes that it has nothing to do with God. It was not religion that got Dean to heal; it was his own strength, his own determination, his own  _ choice.  _ Castiel now knows that when Dean decides to stick to something, when he plants his feet and stands his ground for as long as there is a ground to stand on, he does it with his full heart, his whole being, his entire  _ soul.  _ A beautiful one, undoubtedly. Castiel does not need to see it to know. He just knows. 

Dean has apparently decided to stand his ground on  _ 'pampering'  _ Castiel, as he called it. He is also very serious about taking it slow. And, shockingly, he wasn't even joking about the dates. 

Admittedly, Castiel does not need these things. He is in love with Dean. He will always be in love with Dean—at his worst, at his best. Castiel would marry him tomorrow if he asked, not needing to see any change in Dean at all. If Dean were to wake up one day and drink every alcoholic beverage in town, reverting back to the distance they had before Castiel left, and  _ then  _ asked Castiel to marry him, Castiel would still say yes. 

Sometimes, Castiel thinks that God has absolutely nothing on Dean Winchester. He will not commit to atheism because he has learned faith through Dean more starkly than he ever did God. Dean's touch is a gift of miracles, his kiss is forgivable sin, and Castiel quietly worships his every breath. 

That being said, Castiel won't claim Dean is benevolent. He is flawed. He is perfect in his imperfection. He is...very much an asshole. 

Right now, however, he is not. At this very moment, Dean is keeping true to his word and taking Castiel on a date. It isn't the first they've ever been on, Castiel feels. Many times in the past, they went out to diners, or stayed in to watch movies, or gone on drives together, or—well, that is mostly it, but Castiel counts it. He'd enjoyed those times. 

This is the first time they've ever actually  _ called  _ it a date, though. It's technically the first date Castiel has even been on, at least in name. He's not sure what he should be expecting. 

"Alright, you ain't getting me on The Zipper, 'cause I'll just blow chunks, but the ferris wheel isn't off the table," Dean informs him when they come to a stop in a lot packed full of cars, overlooking what appears to be…

Castiel narrows his eyes. "Dean, are you taking me to a fair?" 

"A carnival, actually." 

"What's the difference?" 

"A carnival is something that travels to a place, while a fair is something the state or community tends to put together. Also, fairs tend to have contests—livestock, ya know?" Dean sucks on his teeth, shaking his head. "Don't really matter. They're both geared towards fun anyway. You ever been to one of these?" 

"No," Castiel admits. He has not. The closest he ever came to anything like this was the activities they put together in church, which was usually just the same play over and over. Castiel was always an angel. "I'm assuming you have." 

Dean hums, pulling the keys out and clipping them on his belt-loop, hips raising to give him the right angle. It's very attractive to watch. "Yeah, I've been to a few. I tried to do shit like this with Sam so he wasn't shut up in a hotel room all the time. If he brought home a good report card, I'd let him ride the swings however many times he wanted." 

Castiel is once again struck with a pang in his chest. Dean is so oblivious to how  _ good  _ he is. He is many things—a good man, a good friend, a good worker. But, most of all, he is a good brother. Even his mistakes cannot change that. 

"That's nice." Castiel leans forward and stares at the rides that stretch towards the sky. "You are aware, Dean, that I am a thirty-one year old man, yes?" 

"Well, yeah." Dean looks at him for a long moment, then he snorts and rolls his eyes. "Lighten up, sweetheart. Fun doesn't come with an age limit. You haven't lived until you've tried the fried oreos at a carnival, man. Shit, and the boiled peanuts? Cotton candy? It's all overpriced, but it's so fucking  _ good."  _

"If you say so, Dean," Castiel murmurs, skeptical. 

Dean grins at him. "Come on." 

The next twenty minutes are dedicated to getting into the carnival, and Castiel watches with a mixture of vague suspicion and curiosity. That's generally how he approaches any freshly revealed part of the world he hasn't experienced yet. Dean once told him that it was endearing. Castiel has never forgotten it. 

Castiel fiddles with his wristband idly while Dean puts his hand on his shoulder and marches him through the crowds, using him like a shield to get people to move. Most people do, which Castiel assumes is because of his stride and the expression on his face—they move because they don't have a choice, because he isn't going to. 

The first thing Dean does is buy cotton candy, forcing Castiel to try it. When Castiel does not like it, Dean tries to look disappointed, but Castiel can clearly see that he's happy to have more to himself. After that, it's a whole introduction to the wonders of carnival food—fried desserts, pizza slices so large they're called elephant ears, turkey legs the size of his forearm, boiled peanuts and sodas with bendy straws and something called a Snow Cone. 

It's a mixed bag of if Castiel will like something or not. He's a picky eater, and Dean already knows this. Textures matter to Castiel, as does taste, and he prefers food that are already his favorites rather than trying something new. However, he does indulge Dean, because he always tends to. The boiled peanuts are a yes, and the Snow Cones are such a hit that Castiel steals Dean's and eats that one, too. You can't go wrong with flavored ice. 

Dean had apparently prepared for Castiel's eating habits. He admits he skipped breakfast and lunch, just so he could finish what Castiel didn't enjoy. It's oddly thoughtful, but not unexpected. Dean does things like that without knowing it—small things that make it apparent just how much he cares. He's always been that way, even before sobriety. 

"Now,  _ these…"  _ Dean drags him to a halt beside what appears to be a balloon-popping activity of some sort. He makes a sound of disgust. "Carnival games are all rigged, man. Don't let no one tell you they aren't, okay? They  _ are."  _

"You don't have to play them," Castiel points out. 

"No, I'm going to," Dean says, and then drags them into the next available round. He does not win. 

He gets frustrated enough that he eventually gives up, and Castiel watches with a tiny smile as he tosses his hands up and marches away. He almost immediately turns back around to grab Castiel's hand and drag him off, grumbling under his breath. 

Dean doesn't let his hand go, and it's—well, Castiel stares down at their fingers, letting Dean's ranting turn to background, carelessly brushing up against people as Dean leads him where they're going next. Their fingers are interlocked, fitting in place. They have never held hands in public before, and they rarely did it outside of the bedroom. 

It causes a slow, warm unfurling in his chest, making his lips tug up against his will. It's not that he needs this, or couldn't do without; it's just that it feels nice. Castiel didn't know he wanted it until this very moment, an odd burst of delight starbursting in his heart. He feels—wanted. 

He has always known that Dean wants him. It is because he knows Dean very well. He should, as he put in the work to do so. Studying his facial expressions, making mental notes of what he looks like when lying, cataloguing the brightness of his eyes, as well as when they're dim. Castiel knows the order of every book in the bible by heart, and it is still with more conviction that he knows Dean—the way he speaks, the way he walks, how he cares, when he's happy, when he's sad, everything in between, and still a subject to study with intense focus for however long Dean will let him. 

Yet, knowing that Dean wants him is different from having Dean so very casually show it. His hand in Castiel's, holding it, claiming it, no matter who could see—perhaps, even, because someone might look. It's a peculiar thing, how happy this makes him, even when he doesn't require it to be happy. 

"Cas? Are you even listening to me?" 

Castiel blinks and rips his gaze from their hands, only just now realizing that they've come to a halt. They're standing in a line. "Yes," he lies. 

"Uh huh." Dean raises his eyebrows. "I don't know who you're trying to fool, but I wasn't born yesterday. I  _ said,  _ are you good for this ride?" 

"This...oh." Castiel turns to see which ride they're waiting in line for. It's called The Himalaya, and there's loud music thumping from it. He watches it go for a long moment, frowning, then he looks at Dean. "Yes, it's fine." 

He goes back to staring at their hands. 

"Cas," Dean says, stepping closer, ducking his head to catch his gaze. His lips are twitching. "You're gonna give me a complex if you don't stop." 

"I like it," Castiel admits bluntly, squeezing Dean's hand to make it clear what he's talking about. 

Dean studies him for a moment, gaze fond and warm. "I know. I can tell. You're not being very subtle about it, not gonna lie." 

"I apologize," Castiel murmurs. 

"Don't. It's—well—" Dean clears his throat, then sets his jaw, his freckles standing out a little more as he flushes. "It's cute, man. So, it's—yeah. It's fine." 

Castiel blinks at him, then smiles before he even realizes that it's going to happen, a wide smile he has absolutely no control over. It's sort of amusing because, at the moment,  _ Dean  _ is the one who has earned the description of 'cute'. This suddenly makes so much sense. Of course Dean shied away from things such as this—he gets  _ flustered.  _

Dean catches his smile and makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, reaching out with his free hand to grab the front of Castiel's shirt and reel him in, their hands still hanging clasped together. Right there in the middle of the line, where people are in front and behind them, Dean kisses him. It's a chaste kiss, because it would not do to get carried away in this setting, but it's warm and sweet and not necessary but oh so cherished all the same. 

When they break apart, Dean turns away, his head ducked. He's clearly grinning. He squeezes Castiel's hand and drags him along when the line moves up. 

The rides turn out to be—

Well, Castiel is choosey about these, too. He likes certain ones and doesn't care for others. Dean enjoys the bumper cars; Castiel does not. The Himalaya gets bonus points because they get to sit beside each other, Dean's arm thrown over the back of their seat, fingers lightly gripping the nape of Castiel's neck—also, they play Beyonce, so Castiel likes it very much. The Ring of Fire is somehow both very fun and very much  _ not,  _ fast and a bit like flying, yet the line is always so long and he doesn't appreciate being trapped in the seat the way he is. 

The swings do become his favorite, even though Dean refuses to get on it. He doesn't  _ do  _ flying of any sort. The tilt-a-whirl is automatically hated, just because Castiel doesn't like being dizzy, and also because Dean goes pale and clammy afterwards and has to sit down and slowly sip water. They skip The Zipper, and Castiel takes one look at the Super Shot where people are being dropped and declares a very firm  _ no  _ on falling. By the time they make it to the Ferris wheel, it's getting dark out. 

The Ferris wheel isn't a favorite, not at first, but Castiel doesn't hate it. There's something oddly calming about it. The sky has gone dark, so all the rides are lit up, and the faint music from different parts of the place seems to be in the distance. Down below, people look like ants, and the cars out in the lot seem farther away than they actually are. 

Dean is holding onto his hand again, a little tighter and tighter every time they crank higher. When they're at the top and the ride comes to a slow halt, he exhales heavily and peers over the side of the seat, only to release a small groan and quickly jerk back. He scoots closer to Castiel, huffing. 

"Are you afraid of heights?" Castiel asks quietly. 

"Nah, not—not exactly. S'kinda like with airplanes, ya know? A turning wheel this big just don't make sense in my brain. Fuck, I hate  _ Final Destination _ with everything in me right now," Dean mutters. 

Castiel watches him in faint amusement. "I believe we are very safe, Dean." 

"We could get stuck, then what?" 

"I assume we'd have to sit here for hours until the proper people arrive to get us down." 

"Promising," Dean grumbles. "And this whole thing is  _ creaking,  _ dude. I don't know. It's just—it fucking builds up. You know you're going to the top, but fuck if you're gonna be prepared for how goddamn vulnerable you are for when you're up there." 

"I like it," Castiel admits. "It's very—still up here. Calm. Solemn, almost. The breeze is nice, and everything feels very far away. Miniscule." 

Dean glances at him, then cracks a smile—a weak one, yes, but he does. "Yeah? A favorite, then?" 

"Mm, no." Castiel shakes his head, then nods towards the swings in the distance. "Still that one."

"You said it was like flying," Dean mutters. "I have no idea how you actually  _ like  _ that, but different strokes for different folks, I guess." 

Castiel's lips twitch. "This is a very close second. You're here. Being ridiculous, but you're here." 

"Well, ain't you a charmer, huh?" Dean teases, leaning in close and grinning at him. "Wanna do something really cliche? Promise you'll like it." 

"What is it?" 

"It's kinda a  _ thing  _ for couples to get to the top of the Ferris wheel and make out." 

"Dean…" Castiel squints at him. "Did you make that up? It sounds like you made that up to have an excuse to kiss me." 

Dean chokes on a laugh, breathing, "Shut the fuck up, Cas," and reaching out to cup his cheek to guide him into a kiss. Made-up or cliche, or not, it's nonetheless a  _ very  _ good idea, and Castiel does, in fact, like it. He sinks into it with a hum, reaching up with his free hand to mold his hand against the curve at the back of Dean's neck. It helps him to tilt Dean's head backwards a bit, allowing him to deepen the kiss at his leisure. 

If this is a sin, Castiel will be sure to steal a kiss before he goes to Hell. He'd walk in willingly for Dean, and he's never been so glad to have been doomed to fire and brimstone as he is when Dean is parting his lips around a sigh and letting Castiel in to taste him, a sample of Heaven. It's an invigorating feeling, a heady power that goes straight to his head, a hook burying deep in his heart and making it wrench violently in his chest, straining towards Dean. Even it knows it belongs to Dean, every single part of him aching to be blessed by his touch. 

"Dean," Castiel murmurs when the ride jolts and starts cranking down again. "We'll miss the ride down if we keep—" 

"Don't care," Dean rasps, his hand pushing back into Castiel's hair, tugging him forward. He sounds soft and slurred, his words strained with want that borders on desperation. "Let's miss it. I love you. Come back. Come back, Cas." 

Castiel does immediately, because he's never been one to deny Dean anything when he really,  _ really  _ needs it. His heart does the same fluttering thing in his chest that it did the first time Dean said those three words to him. They make his mind go completely blank, just a distant flatline. Dean loves him. Out loud. Unashamed. 

It doesn't help him keep a grip on the world around them. At this moment, the Ferris wheel could suddenly roll off its hinges, and he'd just be along for the ride. He digs his fingers into the back of Dean's neck, kissing him and kissing him and not stopping until there's a sharp rap on the side of the bench, popping their self-imposed bubble. 

The unimpressed employee jerks her thumb, wordlessly telling them to get a move on, and they awkwardly disentangle themselves from each other to do just that. It's mildly embarrassing, seeing as they're grown men, but only just. Mostly, Castiel is secretly pleased. Well, not-so-secretly, he realizes, because Dean gives him a knowing  _ look.  _

After that, Dean decides they should share an oversized pretzel that's so drenched in butter that Castiel refuses to touch it. Dean ends up rolling his eyes and holding out small, torn-off bites to pop in his mouth. He chatters away the whole time, the two of them roaming through crowds, a perpetual loop of bumping into strangers, smiling awkwardly, and apologizing hastily before moving on to do it again. 

When Dean finishes the pretzel by holding the last bite out for Castiel to take, he licks the butter off that ran down his fingers all the way to his wrist, declaring that they should do games again. Castiel watches him suck the butter off his own skin, staring at the way his lips shine from it, and he wants to kiss him all over again. Just a quick one. 

It takes him a second to realize that he can, that Dean will allow it, that he'll even  _ welcome  _ it. Castiel comes to a screeching halt, a strange squirming sensation in his stomach. Nervous. Why? He's never been nervous to touch Dean before. Though, he never did it in a public setting like this. He never crossed that boundary, only feeling the need to push them when they were at home. 

"Cas?" Dean turns back towards him, his eyebrows raised, lips still shining with butter. "You good?" 

Castiel's heart thumps unevenly, but he steps forward and does it anyway. Just to see… 

Dean allows it. He even encourages it, pressing in the moment he realizes what Castiel's intentions are. It's short, by all accounts. Simple. Castiel pulls back a beat later, licking the butter off his lips and blinking at Dean, who stares at him for a long moment before he grins. 

"What game do you want to go to?" Castiel asks softly, lips curling up. 

"There's one that's a little more my speed. Come on, I'm gonna win you a stuffed animal," Dean declares. 

He reaches out to take Castiel's hand again, threading their fingers together, a thing that's starting to feel more and more casual. Dean seems at complete ease about it by now, swinging their hands between their bodies without a care in the world. Castiel still likes it very much. 

It takes a few tries, but Dean eventually does win one of the games. It's at one where he holds up an artificial gun and hits cans off of a shelf. He gets three out of five, so he gets a prize off the middle row. Dean looks at Castiel, pursing his lips, and Castiel thinks this is very interesting. He adds no input, patiently waiting to see what Dean will pick. 

In the end, Dean chooses a stuffed animal in the shape of a bee with a cartoonish face, apparently very smug about both his aiming skills and his knowledge of the things Castiel likes. He's so very complex—silly at times, serious at others. It's like Dean represents the full range of human emotion, feeling  _ so much  _ all the time, and it's mesmerizing to witness. He's like a beacon, so bright in everything he does, good and bad, and Castiel is drawn to it helplessly. He always has been. 

Castiel is walking along with the bee tucked under his arm when Dean's phone suddenly starts ringing. It's a unique ringtone, one he must have set himself.  _ Back in Black  _ by AC/DC. Dean snaps up straight immediately when he hears it, tugging them to a halt as he frowns, going for his phone. 

"Dean?" Castiel asks. 

"Shit, I gotta take this," Dean says, glancing at him. Castiel nods, and Dean puts the phone to his ear with a, "What's up, Biker Barbie?" There's a long beat, then Dean drops Castiel's hand to cover his other ear. "Doesn't matter where I'm at. Where are you?" Another pause, then, "Well, that sounds like a pretty stupid thing to be doing. Uh huh. And how many times has  _ that  _ ever worked out for you? No, no, don't argue with me, 'cause I already know. What you're gonna do is walk away." 

Another long,  _ long  _ beat where Dean doesn't say anything. He moves his hand from his ear to palm at his mouth—a wary gesture, stressed, concerned. His face spasms, and he closes his eyes before holding his finger up to Castiel and stepping away. Castiel can see him talking, and then he's nodding and walking back over to Castiel. He has his phone pressed against his chest, lips ticking down. 

"Is everything alright?" Castiel asks. 

"It's Claire," Dean says softly. 

Castiel nods. "The girl you're sponsoring. She's recently gotten sober, hasn't she?" 

"Yeah, and—" Dean pushes the phone down further, lowering his voice even more. "Cas, I'm sorry to break up this date, but she needs me, like,  _ right now.  _ I gotta go, and I can't take any detours, so you're gonna have to come with me." 

"Of course," Castiel says simply, because of course. It is that simple. Dean should not have to apologize, not for this. If there was ever anything worth cutting a date short for, it's this. 

Dean's face softens, like maybe he knows what Castiel is thinking. He darts forward abruptly to kiss him on the cheek, then jerks his head and brings his phone back up to his ear as he starts marching towards the exit. "Alright, kid, I'm on the way. Tell me about this girl. What's her name again? Kaia?" 

For the entirety of the drive, Dean stays on the phone with Claire. He keeps it shoved between his ear and shoulder of the arm that's reaching for the wheel, his other hand stretched out to grasp Castiel's hand on the seat, fingers loosely tangled. He talks the whole time, pausing when Claire presumably responds, and he doesn't  _ sound  _ worried, except that Castiel can see his face. 

Nonetheless, Dean remains calm. He breaks no less than five traffic laws, speeding being the main one by a large margin. It's an unfortunately long drive, seeing as they went out of town to get to the carnival. It's almost an hour before Baby is slowing and pulling up at a bar. 

Castiel's heart squeezes in his chest. 

There's a girl sitting on the curb, the shock of her blonde hair the most notable feature in the dark. She looks very small, hunched in over on herself, practically curling around her phone like it's a lifeline. Dean swings into the parking spot directly behind her, pulling the phone away to hang up and slide out of Baby without a word. 

Castiel watches as Dean plops down on the curb next to Claire, their bodies mere silhouettes in the dark—just a beacon of blonde hair and the width of Dean's shoulders as a guide to who they are. For a long time, they sit out there, and Castiel sees Dean knock his shoulder into Claire's more than once. 

Eventually, at some point, Claire turns around towards Baby, then turns back, clearly talking to Dean. After a few more moments, Dean raises a hand and waves it at Baby, motioning for Castiel to join them. Castiel gets out and goes. 

"Woah," is the first thing Claire says when she tilts her head back to stare up at him. "Weird." 

"You're not wrong," Dean says, "but uh, why?" 

Claire squints at Castiel. "You look like my dad. Like, you  _ really  _ look like him. It's weird." 

"Now, hold on, this could be very therapeutic for you," Dean declares with a grin. "Cas here is a pretty chill dude. I'm sure he'd let you lay into him like you'd wanna give your dad some hell." 

"Wouldn't be the same," Claire says with a sigh. 

"What would you even say to him?" Dean asks, clearly curious. 

Claire snorts. "Oh, something like: just because  _ you  _ don't like eating pussy doesn't mean I don't. Newsflash, dickweed, some people are  _ gay,  _ and you're kid is a lesbian whether ya like it or not." 

"Yeah, no point in saying that to Cas," Dean tells her easily. "He'd just nod along. He kinda did the same thing that you did. Religious family, ducking out 'cause he was gay, burning bibles and shit." 

"I never burned a bible," Castiel says. 

"Neither did I," Claire mutters. She plants her elbows on her knees and looks up at Castiel for a long moment, then blows out a deep breath. "The same thing I did, huh? When did you skip out and leave all the bullshit behind?" 

Castiel hums. "I was eighteen." 

"Oh, damn, I got you beat." Claire smiles thinly, folding her hands together. They're shaking. "I ran out at sixteen and never looked back. Well, that's a lie. I called my mom once, and she said I could come home if I'd go to conversion therapy, so I broke the payphone. What was your crutch-of-choice?" 

"I don't…" Castiel glances at Dean, uncertain. "I'm not sure what you mean." 

Dean sighs. "It's not like that, Claire. Only thing this asshole is addicted to is fuzzy socks." 

"Oh." Claire blinks, her eyebrows threading together as she glances between them. "I thought… So, who is he? A friend of yours?" 

"Boyfriend," Dean rattles off. 

Claire stares at him, then snorts and tilts her head back. "Well, I'll be damned. Say it ain't so. Look at us, a bunch of gays on a lame Friday night. Fun."

"I'm bisexual, but sure," Dean corrects calmly. "You gonna get off your ass anytime on this lame Friday night, or should I settle in?" 

"I want a drink," Claire snaps, reaching up to rub her face with her shaking hands. 

"Well," Dean says, "that's just too damn bad." 

Claire drops her hands, revealing a scowl, and she looks right at Castiel. "How do you put up with this asshole? I mean, seriously,  _ how?"  _

"Being without him is worse," Castiel murmurs. 

"You're biased," Claire says.

"Yes," Castiel agrees. 

That, for some reason, makes Claire smile—a little shaky, a little faint, but a smile nonetheless. "Well, at least you're honest. Maybe you'll have the answer I'm looking for. Let me ask you this, if God would turn me away for liking what I like, how quickly do you think he'd jump in to help me kick this habit?" 

Castiel feels his chest go tight, a lump of emotion abruptly forming in his throat. He won't claim to understand the addiction part of this, because he simply doesn't. He could go into the bar behind him right now and drink everything in there, then turn around and never pick up a drink again. He does not have the same illness that they do, so he cannot fully understand what it is like for them, no matter how much he sympathizes. That's all it is: sympathy. It isn't empathy, because he is, for some reason, free of the horrible struggle they have to endure. 

However, he understands the grapple with religion and God. He can empathize with that, as it sounds like their stories are very similar. It stings in a way most things surrounding faith no longer does. Here is this young girl, so much life ahead of her, and she is in so much pain that she wants a God she likely hates or feels scorned by to help her. 

Castiel can't imagine a situation where he would ever pray for his own sake. He wouldn't  _ dare  _ ask God for anything, not after how he was raised. He struggles to believe God is real at all, and if he is, how he could allow the terrible things that happen to happen. He does not think being gay is a terrible thing, or even wrong, but he does think it's terrible that he had to grow up hated for it by his own family, all in God's stead. 

Claire likely understands that feeling very starkly. Yet, she must be suffering to ask for God's help anyway. Castiel wonders if she prayed when she first stopped drinking. Dean had told him that it was one of the worst experiences of his life, and that it had turned him into something less than what he was.  _ Drying out,  _ Dean had said,  _ it's like you're dying, man.  _

When people think they're dying, they pray. 

Did Claire? 

Castiel knows that Claire is currently in a fragile state. She is sitting outside of a bar, her hands trembling, her legs jumping up and down. He doesn't want to mess this up. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing. And he doesn't want to lie. 

"I have prayed to God many times in my life, and I never once received an answer," Castiel says softly, slowly crouching down so they're eye-level. "There was a time that I prayed every night for three years that God would make sure Dean was okay, perhaps even heal him." He reaches out and gently cups her hands in his, minimizing their shaking. "The truth is, God did not heal him. God did not make sure he was okay. Dean did that on his own, and so can you. Often, the things that are the most worth it in life are the hardest. Even the most faithful mustard seeds sometimes fail to grow, but you do not need faith to heal. That, I know for certain."

"There is supposed to be freedom in faith, though," Claire rasps, staring at him with wide eyes. 

"Freedom is a length of rope," Castiel murmurs. "God wants you to hang yourself with it." 

Claire sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes immediately watering, and she swallows thickly as she jerks her head away. He can see her looking off to the side, blinking rapidly. That apparently isn't helping, and she just closes her eyes and releases a shuddering breath, slowly bending down to press her forehead against their hands, shoulders jerking. Her breath hitches. Castiel looks over at Dean, who is staring at him steadily, watching him. He smiles slightly, a small, brittle thing. 

"Yeah," Claire croaks, lifting back up to pull her hands away from his to scrub at her face. "Yeah, okay. That's—I get what you're saying. So—so, I guess all the religious people are idiots, huh?" 

Castiel shakes his head. "No. I find faith to be very beautiful. People find reasons to try and be good. They  _ want  _ to be good. Some of the rules are questionable, and not everyone has truly good intentions, but religion is… I cannot reconcile my relationship to it, but I respect it. I think people are very strong to partake, and I wouldn't even claim that God is not real, even if I cannot claim that he is. My issues are with God, not those who follow him. Those people...the ones doing it with love in their hearts and belief in their souls, I admire them." 

"Don't you hate them?" Claire whispers. 

"No," Castiel says. "Some may hate me, but I do not hate them. And not all of them hate me. Not all of them do it the way you and I were exposed to." 

"Haven't met one of those yet," Claire mutters. 

Castiel hums. "There is a woman I know through Dean. Layla Rourke. She is possibly the kindest woman I've ever met. The very first time she told me she would pray for me, I told her not to bother because my preference for men would ensure that he would not listen. She simply said that God does not make mistakes, and that is nothing wrong with my preferences. She genuinely cares and loves each and every individual she meets. I do not know if Heaven is real, but I am certain she deserves to go. She has a brain tumor, and she is dying, but even that does not make her stray. You should meet her."

"Maybe," Claire mumbles, looking down at her fingers with a frown. "She sounds—nice." 

"She is," Castiel confirms. 

Claire looks up and sighs. "To tell you the truth, I don't really wanna have anything to do with any of it. I've already dealt with enough." 

"I understand." Castiel nods at her. "Many people forget, but we get to choose. We decide how we live our lives, and how we heal." 

"I just want to get to the part where it's not so—" Claire stops, then holds up her trembling hands with a grim smile. "When it's not this." 

"Debilitating," Castiel murmurs. 

"Yeah, that," Claire agrees. 

Dean leans over and knocks his shoulder into hers again. "You'll get there. Trust me, you will. You'll kick and crawl and fight to get there, but you will."

"It fucking sucks," she says. 

"Yeah," Dean agrees, "it does." 

Claire sighs and reaches down to rub her hands back and forth on her thighs, then she stands to her feet, taking a deep breath. "Alright, I'm ready to go." 

"Yeah, come on, climb on into the back. Just conk out. You look beat, kid," Dean tells her, hopping up and heading for the car. 

Castiel follows, sliding into Baby when they do. Claire spends about ten minutes simultaneously making fun of Dean's car—because it's so  _ him,  _ which Castiel is inclined to agree with—and also appraising it. She does end up taking Dean's coat and balling it up into a pillow, though. It seems like she's asleep in mere minutes, utterly exhausted. 

Dean keeps checking on her in the rearview mirror, gaze flitting up over and over. When he's apparently sure that Claire is genuinely asleep, he pulls one hand from the wheel to scrub his fingers over his forehead, sighing quietly. 

"She's going to get better, Dean," Castiel says. 

Dean nods, glancing over at him. "I know she is. I just wish the process wasn't so fucking hard. She's a good kid. A really good kid. First time I met her was two years ago. I was nearly twenty-seven, and I didn't even know she was sixteen and a runaway. She wasn't ready to get sober, then. And now…" 

"You're helping her," Castiel reminds him. 

"I'm doing my damndest to," Dean says quietly, putting his hand back on the wheel. "She met a girl at one of the meetings. Kaia. They hit it off, and Claire really likes her, but… Man, when you first start off getting sober, you gotta put a lot of shit on the back burner. I guess it hit her hard to think she missed a chance with Kaia, but I told her that, if nothing else, Kaia would  _ understand.  _ I mean, Kaia's at the meetings for drugs, not drinks, but she's six months into sobriety while Claire is barely at two. She's scared it's the right person at the wrong time kinda thing, but I said if Kaia is the right person, she'll be down to wait for the right time, 'cause maybe Claire is her right person, too." 

"That's insightful," Castiel tells him. "I think you're right about that. You gave good advice." 

Dean shoots him a crooked smile. "I was drawing from my own experiences, you know." 

"Were you?" Castiel asks softly, his lips curling up. 

"Yeah. You were the right person at the wrong time, and we got our shot at the right time now." Dean reaches out from the wheel to tug on Castiel's hand, slotting their fingers together. "I'm glad you were around for the right time, too." 

Castiel leans his head back against the seat, gazing at the side of Dean's face, taking him in. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Yeah, I know," Dean says warmly. He glances in the rearview mirror again. "You know, you were real good with her. You gave good advice, man." 

"I wanted to help." Castiel turns his head a little, peering over the seat at Claire's sleeping form, her eyebrows furrowed, breathing deep and even. He looks back at Dean. "I'm going to pray for her." 

Dean looks over at him, gaze flicking over his face, then he smiles and squeezes Castiel's hand before focusing on the road again. "Yeah? Well, good." 

They don't say anything else for the rest of the ride, simply basking in the silence, their hands tangled together on the seat between them. It's quiet until Dean pulls into a yard Castiel recognizes. 

As it turns out, Claire is living with Jody, who took her in when Dean started sponsoring her and said couch-surfing with a bunch of people who had more booze in their houses than food wasn't going to help her get sober. Jody is a good woman, Castiel already knows, and there's no doubt in his mind that she will be very supportive of Claire. 

She comes out of the house before Baby is even off, and Dean leaves the engine running while he slides out to go talk to her. Castiel is sure that Jody didn't take Claire to a bar, so that means Claire ran off on her own. It's clear that Jody is worried, and perhaps even upset, but whatever Dean tells her makes her calm down. It isn't long before she's nodding along and seeming much more relaxed. 

"I knew he was gonna be my sponsor," Claire murmurs from the backseat, and Castiel turns to see her slipping into Dean's coat, drowning in it. She's blinking sleep out of her eyes. "He was a year sober and had to give a speech, and he basically got up there and talked about how much it sucked. He has no idea how much he's changed my life already. Everyone else always talked about how great it was, how it made everything easier, how it was something we should all be rushing to do. But Dean? He just laid it out there how shitty it was, and then he told me I didn't have to be ready right then. I don't think I would have realized that sobriety was an option for me if it wasn't for him." 

"Dean has a way of changing the lives of people he meets," Castiel murmurs, smiling at her. "He doesn't realize it, unfortunately." 

Claire looks at him for a long moment, bags under her eyes, exhausted. Her hands are no longer shaking. "Well, I guess people don't know until you tell 'em, huh? You helped me out a lot tonight, Cas. So, uh, thanks." 

"You're welcome. If you ever need…" Castiel pauses, then reaches in his pocket for his phone, holding it out to her. "Put your number in, and I will text you so you have mine. If you can't get in touch with Dean, you can always call me. Anytime." 

"He promised he would always answer the phone," Claire whispers, going rapidly pale. And then, just like that, her hands are shaking again. 

Castiel wants to kick himself. His mind flashes to Bobby, to how Dean knew instantly that something was wrong because Bobby didn't answer his phone. That was the thing that saved Bobby's life. If he had been discovered an hour later, he'd likely have died. The doctor told Sam that, who confided in Castiel, and they both unanimously agreed not to divulge that piece of information to Dean. Ever. 

Of course Dean has a specific ringtone on his phone for Claire, just so he can always answer when she calls. Dean never once in the three years before it actually happened faced the thought that Bobby wouldn't answer his phone, and here Castiel is making Claire consider it less than two months in. It's got to be like yanking the rug from under her feet, shaking the foundation of the support she feels that Dean provides her. Castiel has never been so guilty before in his life. 

She may one day need to face it, just the same that Dean had to, but that day is not today. 

"He will," Castiel assures her, keeping calm despite the urge to soothe her a little more forcefully than she likely needs. "This is just for when he gets too annoying. If nothing else, I will understand when you wish to rant about him being an ass." 

Claire relaxes in increments, though her hands do keep a hint of a tremble, only noticeable because she reaches out to grab his phone. As she types her number in, she gives a ghost of a smile. "Be prepared for a lot of ranting about Dean Winchester being an asshole." 

"It'll be a bonding experience," Castiel says, lips curling up as he takes his phone back. 

"Looking forward to it," Claire replies, just as Dean ambles up to the back door and ducks inside, staring at her. She arches an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" 

"Time to face the music, kiddo," Dean tells her, clicking his teeth. "As you can expect, Jody ain't too happy with you running off, so keep that shit to a minimum, please. I got her talked down, but I'll let her rip you a new one next time. Ain't nothing worse than having Jody be disappointed in you, and trust me, I'd know. You get me?" 

Claire rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I got it. I'll try to keep my crippling dependence on alcohol all locked away forever and ever. Doin' my best." 

"Don't I know it." Dean pauses, lingering, then he meets her gaze. "You really are, you know that, don't you? Doing your best. It's all you can do. You didn't go in the bar, Claire. You called me. You did good."

"Thanks," is all Claire says, holding his gaze for a long moment, then looking away. 

Dean's face softens, and he murmurs, "Come on, you should get inside and catch up on the Z's. Ain't nothing like nearly falling off the wagon. That shit will put your ass in the dirt every time." 

Claire grumbles under her breath, but she crawls out of the car behind Dean and goes with him to meet up with Jody. Castiel watches them talk, noting that Dean tugs on one of Claire's wavy, blonde locks before heading back to the car. Jody leads Claire back inside, and Claire is still wearing Dean's jacket when the door shuts behind her. 

Baby is barely five minutes down the road before Castiel is blurting out, "Do you want kids?" 

"Do I—" Dean chokes, then blows out an explosive breath, glancing over at him with wide eyes. "Jesus, sweetheart, warn a guy. We just had our first date. Moving a little fast there, aren't ya?" 

"Dean." Castiel sighs and rolls his eyes, endlessly exasperated by Dean's commitment to being utterly ridiculous. "We were together for two years before parting ways for three, so it's not as if we're complete strangers. It's just a question." 

"A pretty big question. Why, uh, do you ask?" 

"Seeing you with Claire makes me…" 

Dean glances at him again, then abruptly breaks out into a grin. "Baby fever, Cas? Really? Did I give you a heart-boner? Wow." 

_ "Dean,"  _ Castiel snaps, edging into annoyed now. 

"Cas," Dean teases in response, winking at him, as unbothered as always. 

"Will you answer the question?" 

"You first. Do  _ you  _ want kids?" 

Castiel huffs and looks out the window. "I have never thought about it, admittedly, but—well, I suppose I don't know. I think I would like to do everything with you." 

"Everything, huh?" Dean asks softly, reaching out to take his hand again, almost like he's become addicted to doing so now that he's started. "You mean, like, marriage and kids and growing old together, right? The whole shebang." 

"Yes," Castiel says bluntly. 

"Not to jeopardize the whole  _ 'taking it slow'  _ thing we got going on," Dean starts carefully, "but I ain't gonna lie and say I  _ don't  _ want those things. I know what you mean about seeing me with Claire, 'cause seeing  _ you  _ with Claire…" He makes a face, widening his eyes and tipping his head to the side. "So, yeah, I get it. I'm only twenty-nine, and you're a few months out from thirty-two, so we got time. If there's one thing I've learned in the last three years, it's that it's best to do what ya can when you're ready.  _ Sooooo,  _ when we're ready…" 

Castiel's lips curl up. "Right. I understand. I agree, actually. I suppose I was just curious because of how good you are with Claire." 

"She's gonna be around a lot. Probably for the rest of my life," Dean says. "You cool with that? 'Cause you're gonna have to be cool with that." 

"Of course. I like it." 

"That's good. It's kinda weird being in Bobby's shoes, ya know? He gives me a lot of advice. Fuck, Cas, he did so goddamn  _ much  _ for me." 

"I think Claire feels the same for you." Castiel squeezes his hand, looking over at him. "You're a good man, Dean. I—" He swallows, emotion clogging his throat. "I love you very much." 

"You fucking sap," Dean mutters. "I love you, too."

Castiel brings Dean's hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it, and Dean releases a soft sigh in the quiet of the car. 

Once again, they fall silent as Baby drifts down the long stretch of road before them. Castiel doesn't ask where they are going, whether Dean is going to take him home and walk him to his door and steal a kiss, or whether Dean is going to revise what slow means and bring him to Dean's where they will undoubtedly fall into bed together again. Either option is something Castiel would find joy in, and so he does not feel the need to know. 

They are so much of so many things, the two of them. Both a new beginning and a harsh end. A fresh start and picking up where they left off. Sleeping dogs and separate ways, awake and coming back together again. They know each other. They're learning each other. The right person through the wrong time, and still here for the second chance they both want. A past and a future. 

Castiel thinks about it and thinks about it, and he doesn't really think much at all. Because, simply, no matter what has happened, or changed, one thing remains the same as always. 

Castiel looks at Dean, and he is at home. 

* * *

_ Six months ago… _

It takes less than an hour to pack up Castiel's life into two suitcases. He hasn't accumulated much in the last three years. That could have something to do with the fact that he hasn't really done much of anything for the last three years, simply hanging in the balance after his life seemed to be put on pause. 

Sighing, Castiel shuts the trunk on Gabriel's very old, very outdated car. It has not been maintained at all, sitting in the parking lot outside of the apartment complex Gabriel lives in for years. There's a bus stop up the street, and it eventually leads into the city if you're patient enough to get there. Gabriel had absolutely no need for a car. 

It's very nice of him to give it to Castiel. He can't get on a plane to go somewhere because there will be no one to pick him up. Where he's going is a town small enough that taxis are just not a thing, nor is Uber. Fortunately, he's looking forward to driving. 

"All set?" Gabriel asks from the sidewalk, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

Castiel nods. "Yes. Thank you." 

"You know you don't have to go, right?" Gabriel tells him, lips ticking down.

"I know," Castiel murmurs. 

Gabriel steps off the sidewalk, approaching him with a knowing glint in his eye. "You know where you're going, don't you?" 

"I do," Castiel admits. He hasn't said it out loud for fear that he will arrive and immediately need to leave. Old friends may not even consider him one of theirs. And someone else, someone that's not even a friend at all, may not appreciate his return. 

"So, when I asked you where home was," Gabriel says, "that's where you thought of?" 

Castiel averts his eyes. Yes, when Gabriel asked, the first thing that popped into his mind was not a place, but a person. Dean. Always Dean.  _ Still  _ Dean. He doesn't know how to make it not true. It has been three years, and it feels like he's been waiting for the moment where he can go back. 

Gabriel sighs and continues with, "Well, I don't really have the room to judge, do I? I'm getting married to my ex-wife." 

"It's not for—it's not  _ just  _ for him," Castiel tells him, willing it to be true. To an extent, it is. There are others as well—Sam, Meg, Jessica. People who feel like family in his mind, more than his actual family ever did. "I'm not going back to—try again." 

"What if he wants to try again?" Gabriel asks. 

Castiel looks up, a vibrant pulse of hope in his chest. He swallows. "I don't know what will happen. I suppose it depends on how much he's changed...or hasn't. Frankly, I just want to be—" He falters, looking down at his shoes. "I do not need for us to try again. Just being where he is, and with friends, will be enough. People break up for a reason." 

"Yeah, and it's bullshit to think that the reason is always because they're not meant to be together. Kali and I split like bananas, but we make for some damn good smoothies." Gabriel waves his hand, making Castiel look up at him. "Sometimes, people  _ need  _ to take a step back so they can make something better. Just don't count it out, okay?" 

"I can't do it," Castiel whispers. "I can't have him, then lose him. Not again. I just—can't, Gabriel."

"Okay." Gabriel's face softens, just a bit. He nods seriously. "Well, in that case, my advice is to stay the fuck away from him at the start. Get settled in. Make a home for yourself  _ without  _ him. He's very dreamy, but he is not the sun. You are." 

Castiel narrows his eyes. "You're quoting Grey's Anatomy again, aren't you?" 

"Cristina Yang said it best, brother o'mine." Gabriel grins at him and reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, giving him a little shake. "Seriously, figure out what you wanna do before you do it, and up until that point, just deny, deny, deny. Works like a charm every time, trust me." 

"Thank you," Castiel says awkwardly. He glances at the car, then back at Gabriel as his hand slowly falls away. "You'll be fine, yes? You and Kali." 

"We're good like a Sunday morning," Gabriel assures him, lips curling up. "Don't worry about little ol' me. I'll be so busy reintroducing every available surface to my ex-wife slash fiance that I'll forget to be sad you're no longer moping around my apartment." 

"I never moped," Castiel mutters. 

Gabriel's face scrunches up, and he makes a so-so gesture with his hand. "Eh, you did, though. Go on, get out of here. You're homeward bound now, Sassy Cassie. Call me when you get there." 

"I will," Castiel agrees, stepping back as Gabriel does the same, steadily backing up towards the sidewalk, watching as Castiel gets into the car. 

For a moment, he looks in the rearview mirror, taking in his brother and the apartment complex behind him. For the past three years, he has been existing in an interlude, but that does not mean he hasn't existed. He will be leaving, but it will not feel like leaving something behind, not like it did when he first arrived here. 

Castiel doesn't know what he's going to return to. He doesn't know what awaits him, or what he even truly wants when he gets there. He won't allow himself to think about it. There's only the sharp tug within him, a longing that feels like his own and someone else's, calling him home. 

He turns the key, and he starts driving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao, not Gabriel giving Cas the advice to deny everything 😂 Also, Claire??? I LOVE HER ❤️ Also also, the carnival date 🥺


	8. Carry On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! No warnings for this chapter, of course. Go forth and enjoy ☺️

The coffee-pot gurgles, a slow  _ blub-blub  _ that Cas stares at blankly. Dean grins as he enters the kitchen, amused at the desperation on Cas' face. 

"I think we found your crutch, sweetheart." 

Cas glances over at his shoulder, squinting at Dean. "I know what you're insinuating, but I'm not addicted to coffee, Dean. I can stop at any time." 

"Oh, is that right?" Dean laughs at him, raising his eyebrows. He sidles up behind Cas, hooking his chin on his shoulder, reaching around to peel the mug out of his grip and set it down. "Well, now's as good a time as any." 

"Tomorrow," Cas says. 

"Whenever you're ready." Dean presses his face into Cas' neck, hands skimming down his sides. He grips Cas' hips and slowly starts swaying their bodies from side-to-side. "I got this song stuck in my head. It's drivin' me nuts." 

"Taylor Swift again?" 

"Literally fuck you." 

"Educated guess," Cas murmurs. 

"If you  _ must  _ know," Dean mutters, "it's Bon Jovi. Can't really go wrong there, but still. It's just the same lyrics over and over. An ear-worm." 

"Hm." Cas tilts his head back. Dean can feel his cheek brush his hair. "You generally only obsess over a song like that if it means something to you. What are the lyrics?" 

_ "Well I can promise you tomorrow, but I can't buy back yesterday," _ Dean says softly, almost crooning it, heaving a sigh and wrapping his arms fully around Cas' front, squeezing him a little. "That, and the whole damn chorus.  _ I'll be there for you, these five words I swear to you. When you breathe, I want to be the air for you. I'll be there for you. I'd live and I'd die for you. I'd steal the sun from the sky for you. Words can't say what love can do. I'll be there for you.  _ And fuck, don't get me goddamn started on:  _ I wasn't there when you were happy, and I wasn't there when you were down. Didn't mean to miss your birthday, baby. I wish I'd seen you blow those candles out.  _ This song is haunting me." 

"You relate to it," Cas says. 

"Ya think?" Dean asks flatly. 

Cas sighs and turns in Dean's arms, holding him back, leaning away so they can peer at each other. Always looking at each other and never really wanting to look away. "Dean, things cannot always go as smoothly as we want them to. Life is—" 

"Hard," Dean suggests. 

"Yes, it is," Cas agrees. "We are punished enough by things we do not deserve. I do not think it benefits anyone to add to the pain." 

Dean rears back a little, blinking at Cas, a little startled. "You think I'm punishing myself?" 

"Not necessarily," Cas murmurs. He tilts his head a little, regarding Dean curiously. "You know forgiveness plays an important role in faith." 

"Yeah." Dean nods. "So?" 

Cas drifts his fingers down Dean's chest idly, eyebrows drawing together. "It's the willingness to forgive ourselves for things that's the hardest, I believe. How long should we hold onto the regrets of our past, Dean? Are we supposed to let what happened consistently influence what happens next? Frankly, I don't want it to." 

"I don't really want it to, either," Dean admits. He grimaces and looks away. "There's a thing that Bobby says about sobriety. It's like climbing a never-ending mountain, and you're always getting closer to the top, and you gotta let the climb be more important than reaching it. He said it isn't gonna help if I keep retracing my steps. I'm just backtracking at that point." 

"Right," Cas says softly. He reaches up and presses his fingers to Dean's jaw, adding pressure to get Dean to look at him. "I don't want to say there is nothing to forgive on either of our parts. To me, that is the way it  _ feels,  _ but I know that there are things we both feel the need to punish ourselves for. Perhaps forgiveness isn't something we earn; it is simply a gift. You have mine, should you need it." 

Dean swallows and leans forward, closing his eyes and letting their foreheads rest together. "I'm probably gonna always be sorry, man. Sorry for how things ended, sorry for those three years apart, sorry for all the shit I didn't do right." 

"I know. I'm sorry for my part in it, I'm sorry I came back and pressured you when I had no right, and I'm sorry for leaving. But...I do believe it is time to move forward," Cas tells him. 

"Yeah," Dean whispers, "maybe that's for the best." 

* * *

_ Three years  _ **_later…_ **

Dean is unsurprised to come home and find that his house has guests, not that he isn't bringing more than a few with him. Bobby, Claire, and Kaia ride home from the meeting with him more often than they don't. Cas has apparently invited over Sam and Jess, which isn't abnormal at all. 

It's true that Dean doesn't really care about getting the chips, even to this day. He just received his six year chip, and he already has plans to toss it into the junk drawer where he keeps all the rest. It ensures he doesn't lose them, but he also doesn't have to see them every single day. They're there if he wants to look at 'em, and they're avoidable if not. 

Dean pushes Bobby into the house because he's currently got his arms full of the take-out they swung by to grab. Dean had made sure to grab extra, because this is something of a routine. When he gets a new chip, he doesn't like to make a big production out of it. He prefers using the excuse as a reason to get everyone together and have a nice time, that's all. Just family and good food—living the dream. 

"I can  _ smell  _ the barbecue coming from that," Jess says, leaning over the back of the couch to stare at the bags of food with genuine delight on her face. 

"It's a barbecue kinda day," Dean tells her, swinging Bobby around to place him in between the couch that Sam, Jess, and Cas are sitting on. Bobby immediately starts handing out the food while Claire and Kaia squeeze into the armchair on the other side of him, half on top of each other and not seeming to mind at all. Dean dips in to press a quick kiss to Cas' lips. "How was work?" 

"Quiet, today," Cas tells him, tipping his head back to smile at him from upside down. "How was the meeting?" 

"Sad as shit," Claire answers for him. "Marcel relapsed, so he's in rehab right now." 

Cas picks his head up, lips ticking down. "I'm very sorry to hear that." 

"We won't see him for a while," Kaia murmurs, sighing as she leans forward to take the container from Bobby. "I was thinking of going over to his house and cleaning up, making sure there's no needles or anything around when he gets out. I think Fiona has the key to his apartment. They're really good friends. It's—we could help, at least." 

"If ya do," Bobby says gruffly, "let me know. You ain't going to go alone." 

Claire snorts. "Yay, a chaperone," she mutters sarcastically, rolling her eyes. 

"Make that two," Dean adds, swinging around the couch to flop down in between Sam and Cas, forcing them both to shift and scoot to make room. "I'll see if Fiona is game to go, too." 

"Field trip," Claire mutters, holding out her hand as Bobby hands her the food she ordered. She peers down into her bag, then frowns and looks up at Bobby. "Hey, Grandpa, where's my ketchup?" 

"It should be in there," Bobby grumbles, throwing her his usual scowl that's mostly just his face. He finally hands the last plate out to Cas, then takes his own out and flips it open. 

Claire grunts and squirms out from underneath Kaia, pushing to her feet. "No damn ketchup. How the fuck else am I gonna get my vegetable intake?" 

"If you'd order another side that  _ isn't  _ fries, like perhaps green beans, you wouldn't have to rely on ketchup, which is still not a vegetable," Cas tells her, watching her go towards the kitchen with a narrow-eyed squint that suggests they've had this conversation many times—they have, actually. 

"Okay,  _ Dad,"  _ Claire shouts back over her shoulder, and Dean can't see her face, but he's absolutely sure that she's rolling her eyes. 

Cas turns to Dean, frowning. "Why didn't you make her get green beans?" 

"Uh," Dean says, his mouth half-full with his own fries—he'd ordered double, too. Whoops. 

Thankfully, Claire returns with the ketchup bottle trapped under her arm. There's some rearranging, but she ends up sprawling out in Kaia's lap, smirking right at Cas as she covers her fries. 

"You know," Jess says, barbecue sauce in the corner of her mouth, "they tried to declare ketchup a vegetable in...1981, I believe. People went nuts. It was just the Ronald Reagan administration trying to do budget cuts, things to do with school lunches, but it fell through pretty quickly. So,  _ technically,  _ ketchup isn't declared a vegetable. A certain amount of tomato paste is, though, which means—as of the year 2011—pizza counts as one." 

"How do you  _ know  _ that?" Dean mutters in awe, gaping at her, burger half-raised to his mouth. 

Jess waves a cleaned rib bone at him. "I'm full of fun facts, Dean. You'd be surprised." 

"So, ketchup  _ isn't  _ a vegetable," Cas declares with a certain amount of relish. He reaches over to pluck the side of spinach from Sam's plate, leaning forward to hold it out to Claire pointedly. 

"Hey!" Sam bursts out, frowning. He goes ignored. 

Claire heaves a sigh and reaches over to take the spinach, making a face. "Fine, you win this round.  _ But  _ pizza is the solution to all my problems. Don't think I won't carry around tomato paste just to prove a point, Cas, because I will." 

Cas narrows his eyes. 

"Sweetheart," Dean says, amused, "let it  _ go."  _

"For now," Cas replies ominously. 

Dean shakes his head and bites into his burger, chewing around a smile. He can't help but find the humor in Cas being so stubborn about this. Cas is stubborn about a lot of things, but when it comes to Claire, he can be downright ridiculous. 

Over the years, Cas and Claire have become quite close, and it's a joy to watch. They give each other hell, but...lovingly? Cas very aggressively wants Claire to be okay at all times, and Claire very subtly finds ways to make him display his care for her. It's not subtle to  _ Dean,  _ because he used to—and still does, sometimes—do the same thing with Bobby. Those father figures, man. They get you every time. 

Not that Dean isn't bad about it, too. He's Claire's sponsor, so he's as involved in her life as she is in his. He's never missed a phone call from her, not at any time of the day or night, no matter what he's doing when his phone starts ringing. He easily recognized it when she would call just to see if he'd answer, and he knew what it meant. After all, he did the same damn thing with Bobby. 

Now, Claire and Bobby have an odd relationship. She calls him Grandpa. It started as an antagonizing thing, because she poked at him for being old, plus he's her sponsor's sponsor—like a Dad's Dad, in a joking way, except not. They're either partners in crime, or they're arguing about stupid shit, Claire trying to steal Bobby's hat and Bobby trying to ram into her ankles with his chair, and there's absolutely no in between at all. It's hilarious. 

Claire's been real good, though. She is coming up on her two year chip in the next couple of weeks. It would be her third, except she relapsed about a year in on her first attempt at sobriety. She'd gotten a call from her dad, and three hours later she'd been on the phone with Dean, crying and apologizing and smashing all the beer bottles she'd emptied. 

It was a hard time. Dean had brought her home, and he and Cas had taken care of her while she dried out a second time. Kaia had come, too. By that point, they were sickeningly in love and tentatively dating. Kaia had refused to leave Claire, and she'd settled in to wait for Claire to recover to try again. It was then that Dean realized Kaia loves Claire the same way Cas loves him. He'd watched Claire shake through the night, Kaia gently stroking her sweaty forehead, and he'd thought  _ you're gonna be okay, kid.  _

And she is. She's doing just fine. Won't go back to school no matter how much Jody encourages her to, but she's got a good life for herself. Dean actually helped her get a job at the local gym, starting out as someone who cleaned the equipment. Now, she's worked her way up to actually hosting some boxing classes. Dean's been punched in the face by her because he'd thought it would be a brilliant idea to dance around in the ring with her, only to end up with a bloody nose. She's got a mean right hook. 

Cas had been so proud of her. 

"I think the real question is if ketchup is a smoothie or not," Sam declares about halfway into his meal. Multiple people turn to stare at him, aghast. 

"Yes," Claire says immediately. 

"It's  _ not,"  _ Cas argues. 

Dean sighs and shares a  _ look  _ with Kaia. They have something of a bond the same way Claire and Cas do, though entirely different. Claire is a lot like Dean in personality, so Cas absolutely adores her and also spends a great deal of time bickering fondly with her. Kaia is more like Cas, so Dean is helplessly doting and also spends a lot of time quietly pleased with how well they get along. They have bonded over the ridiculousness of their loves. 

As expected, Claire and Cas launch into a mild argument of whether or not ketchup is a smoothie. Dean wisely stays out of it because he is inclined to agree with Claire that it is, and he has learned not to side against Cas in moments such as these. Cas will take it personally and be bitchy about it, which is hilarious, admittedly, but Dean intends to have sex tonight, so he keeps his damn mouth shut. 

Eventually, Bobby shuts the argument down by calling them all idjits and declaring that a smoothie is liquified fruits, and since tomatoes are a fruit, and ketchup is liquified, it's a smoothie. Claire flaunts her victory, and Cas sulks. 

Dean gets elbowed in the side by Sam because he's an awkward giant, so Dean automatically elbows him back, and then that dissolves into a shoving match on the couch. Bobby  _ also  _ has to shut that down, grumbling while Dean and Sam snicker quietly and elbow each other when Bobby isn't watching them with that thousand-yard glare of his. 

As good as Bobby can see through his bullshit, Dean can see through his. That man loves 'em all to death. 

When the meal starts coming to a close, everyone closing their containers and sprawling out, stuffed and satisfied, Dean forces himself to get up with a groan. He shuffles around, gathering the trash, jerking his thumb at Claire to wordlessly make her get up and help. She rolls her eyes, but she does. 

Well, she only makes one trip, but still. Dean just snorts when she leaves the kitchen after throwing away one handful, then he moves back into the room to make the last haul. He stops by the junk drawer while he's in there, opening it to toss his chip in, staring down at the others already there. 

He has twelve now. His one day. Thirty days, sixty, ninety. Three months, then six months. One year, two years, three, four, five, six. He fiddles with his newest chip for a moment, then cracks a small smile and throws it in, closing the drawer back. 

When he turns, Cas is leaning in the doorway. 

"Being nosy?" Dean asks, smiling at him. 

"Just curious," Cas corrects, which is apt. He is curious. He always is. His lips curl up as he moves into the kitchen, standing a little too close, as usual, his hip right next to the junk drawer. "I know you don't care for me saying it, but congratulations on another year of sobriety." 

"You think we'll still celebrate it when I reach year ten? Twenty?" Dean raises his eyebrows and hooks his fingers into Cas' belt-loops, tugging him even closer. "I get it, but I don't need a gold star for doing the right thing for me, and everyone else." 

Cas sighs and leans into him. "I do not believe that is what it is. When people achieve something, especially something that is not easy, there is room to celebrate it. I find it to be...up-lifting. I think people should do it more often." 

"What, like when someone mows their lawn, they should give themselves a pat on the back?" 

"If it was something they struggled to do and still managed it anyway, then perhaps so. I think things would be a lot easier if it was more commonplace to reward ourselves and each other for doing them. I'm uncertain why so many people wish to pretend that things are not difficult. Life is not a competition to beat everyone else at. We're all trying our best, and I think we would benefit from celebrating our efforts a bit more. Don't you?" 

"Well, when you put it like  _ that,"  _ Dean mumbles, lips twitching. "Yeah, I can get behind that." 

Cas gazes at him, blue eyes open and adoring. "I'm glad. In that case, I'm proud of you." 

"Yeah, whatever." Dean rolls his eyes and slides his hands around Cas' back, holding him. "I can't say my life has always been the best, but I mean...the bad shit made me stronger, I guess." 

"No, it didn't." Cas studies his face, taking him in, staring from up close. "Bad things that happen are simply bad things, and we do not deserve them, and to think in any way that we do—that  _ you  _ do—just to become more...resilient is not something I think you should settle into. You've been through a lot, Dean, as have many of us. It is what it is, but what it isn't and never will be is something we earned." 

Dean swallows, his breath hitching. He reaches up to swipe an unruly lock of hair off of Cas' forehead, his heart clenching in his chest. "Okay, maybe you're right about that, too. It's easier to see when thinking about everyone else. I know for damn sure Sammy deserved a better Dad than we had, and he definitely didn't earn the way it affected him." 

"And you had it worse," Cas murmurs. 

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with all this baggage if I can't even pretend like it somehow made me grow?" Dean asks, huffing. "Come on, man, that's just trauma one-oh-one. I'm fucked up for a  _ reason,  _ ain't I?" 

"There is no reason worthy of your suffering." 

"But I turned out alright, don't you think?" 

"Of course," Cas says instantly, "but that is due to your own strength, and your own effort, none of which your pain ever contributed to. Pain is just pain, Dean. How we react, that's...us."

Dean quirks a small smile. "You been reading your Bible lately, sweetheart?" 

"I have not," Cas tells him, lips twitching. "We did start a philosophy book in your book club, however. Sarah has been asking about you, by the way. She's wondering if you're ever coming back." 

"Probably not," Dean admits. "I got a lot of other shit going on, and I'm still betrayed by the fact that they assigned Twilight. It's nice you got your own hobbies and stuff, man, but I can't believe you read that shit. You gotta draw the line somewhere." 

Cas' smiles grows. "I enjoy the discussions." 

"You're going back this Saturday, right?" 

"No, actually. Gia is supposed to be having her baby, so the meeting is cancelled." 

"Oh." Dean raises his eyebrows and slips his hands back, easing them out to grab Cas' hands, threading all their fingers together and idly swinging them from side-to-side. "So, what I'm hearing is, you got yourself a free afternoon, huh?" 

"Yes," Cas says simply. 

Dean hums, eyeing him knowingly. "Well, my schedule is pretty clear. Whaddya say you let me take you on a date?" 

"Yes," Cas replies instantly, then frowns as he tilts his head. "Will date night be cancelled?" 

"No. We can have two date nights in one month, Cas," Dean assures him, amused. 

"Okay." Cas' smile returns. 

Dean shakes his head, fond despite himself. Date night is something they both insist on, mostly because they  _ want  _ to. But, also, it's kinda important to them. Getting out in the world, carving out time for themselves, doing things other than just sitting at home, loving each other shamelessly where anyone can see. They go on a date once a month and have been for years now, even if all they can swing is a late night stroll around the block before bed. 

Cas looks so pleased at the idea of an additional date out of the blue. He likes his routines, yes, but he's not opposed to some spontaneity. Dean's absurdly smug about his suggestion, as well as a little delighted himself. They're both so stupid for each other; it's objectively hilarious and kind of pathetic. 

Dean wouldn't have it any other way, honestly. 

"C'mere, sweetheart," he mumbles, drawing Cas in, still smiling when their lips meet. 

For a while, they stand there in the kitchen, laughing into each other's mouths, wrapped up together. They kiss slow and warm, sated and satisfied, pleased and profound. Dean doesn't hold on too tight, and Cas isn't scared to pull away. They have each other. They aren't going anywhere. 

They eventually make their way back into their own living room, hands linked. Everyone is still lazing around, talking, basking in the prominent undercurrent of family. Dean sinks into it with a sigh, dragging Cas down on the couch with him. They settle in, relaxed. They're happy in an uncomplicated way, finding the easy parts of life and grabbing onto them with all their might, not letting go simply because the hard times exist, too. 

Dean rubs his thumb over the back of Cas' hands, and he thinks that this—all of this, right here, right now—is for the best, and there's no maybe about it. He doesn't have to question anything, or ache for what he wants, or wish after something he once lost. He's got it. It's his. 

He hasn't thought about separate ways and sleeping dogs in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I titled every chapter with a title from a Supernatural Episode—in some way referencing a connection between that episode and the chapter. Is it cliche? Perhaps. I nonetheless did it. 
> 
> I would like to point out once more that this was a therapeutic fic for me to write—from addiction and alcoholism to religion, and so on. That being said, it IS just fic. As realistic as I tried to be, not everything is going to be correct, and not everyone is going to enjoy how I wrote certain things. That's okay! Just, it would be great if no one could comment negatively surrounding these topics, because 1) that could be potentially bad for others, or even myself, and 2) these ARE sensitive topics, yes, but there are tags, in-depth warnings, and multiple places that someone who doesn't want to be here could have left. 
> 
> Of course, discussing these topics is encouraged, and it matters a lot how it's framed. Asking questions or being vocal about your opinions, or even your own experiences, is a normal thing and valid and fully encouraged. Anything can be addressed in positive, un-harmful ways. 
> 
> Anyways, that's a wrap on this one. I hope you all enjoyed reading, and thank you so much for doing so. Don't hesitate to drop off some kudos and leave a comment; I genuinely cherish every single one! 
> 
> Ta!
> 
> -SOBS


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